


Rook

by gwyx (gwydionx)



Series: Knights of Amaranth [2]
Category: Original Work
Genre: Badass Fey, Celtic Mythology & Folklore, Elves, Fae & Fairies, Fantasy, Faustian Bargain, M/M, Magic, Mythical Beings & Creatures, Original Character(s), Original Slash, PTSD, Paranormal, Pukwudgie, References to Geekdom, Sidhe, Survivor Guilt, Swords & Sorcery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-09
Updated: 2017-03-14
Packaged: 2018-08-13 04:02:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 31
Words: 65,212
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7961689
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gwydionx/pseuds/gwyx
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Yeah, well... You're lucky. You got the one guy in all of New York City who knows how to fight a dragon."</p><p>Or, the paranormal-turns-fantasy adventure with monsters, mayhem, and an out-of-work librarian. And a side-helping of romance.</p><p>Standalone story.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Shallow Bay

**Author's Note:**

> Quick intro - This is the second of four standalone (but interconnected) stories about fey knights and the humans who love them. Each story centers on a different knight, and has a different tone. Remain was the sweet fairy-tale romance. This is the dark, Faustian romance.
> 
> Fandom inspiration is Sherlock (BBC), The Mummy films, and Captain America. The knight in this story is the [ Knight of Cups (Water)](https://teachmetarot.com/the-card-meanings/cups/the-knight-of-cups/) in the Rider-Waite tarot. 
> 
> For music-lovers, the theme song for Rook is [Dance with the Devil](https://youtu.be/jDyZj4msaoE) by Breaking Benjamin. Soundtrack is their [Shallow Bay](https://youtu.be/ZA-8Qi1IIOQ?list=PLKJFxKSUYtCNft8suO0kXUy-JJSM0y9z-) album.
> 
>  **Warnings:** This story features a main character who is a veteran with survivor’s guilt and PTSD. It also contains hints of psychological manipulation. Trigger warnings will be noted by chapter. Violence warning is for monster fights and brief war-based flashbacks. Mature warning is for language and graphic consensual sex.
> 
> Comments/criticism are all very welcome. :)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title from [Shallow Bay](https://youtu.be/64P6UHT0IXA) by Breaking Benjamin.

In the darkness, there was silence. Not a breath disturbed the utter stillness of the little room wrapped so thickly in shadow, the windowpanes devoured the moonlight. The room filled with complete, engulfing void.

A figure sat in the center, legs crossed and folded on the hard linoleum tile. He could not see his own body in the blackness, let alone the playing board before him. He did not need to see the miniature figurines carved of ivory and stone. With careful, reserved grace he reached out, curling his lean fingers around the figure. With a confident gesture, he slid it three spaces forward.

A crack of lightning shattered his vision— _mask of death._

He gasped in pain. The image seared his mind, felt more than seen. His fingertips clutched desperately to the small playing piece, keeping it upright even as the fear blasted his skin with cold surreality. Struggling to keep his balance, he withdrew, shuffling the piece backward in retreat.

Another thunderstrike _—stone steps, dripping blood._

A cry tore from his lips. Adrenaline coursed in his veins like alcohol, response to the horror he witnessed. It threatened to break him.

But he must not give in. With shaken determination, he once more pressed the stone piece forward.

_A figure on the parapet. Wraiths clambered over the stone to reach him, devour him. Broken bodies lay below, consumed, he was consumed by them, the terror etched in death. High above, a star rose on the horizon. He leapt to the top of the parapet, heart pounding in his ears, and threw himself into the courtyard below with a scream._

In the little room, there was silence. Llewellyn’s chest rose and fell. A single tear slipped from the corner of his eye, unseen by any but the darkness.

A flood of anger surged through him, and he threw his hand across the board, scattering the pieces with a harsh clatter.

 

* * *

 

The vodka wasn’t strong enough.

Not that it would have made a difference, really. Chris looked at the half-full bottle of Smirnoff on the coffee table in front of him, the way the light glinted off the shot glass. The smooth, black surface of the table cast them like castles made of crystal: impressive at first glance, but take a hammer at them, and they’d shatter. The thought filled him with a cynical sorrow.

Chris had been in the top ten percent of his graduate class. He had a masters degree in ancient and medieval literature, in addition to an associates degree in library science. He’d worked at the university library for eight years, through the majority of his college education. He knew that library inside and out. He’d been a favorite among the staff, and he’d even been offered a promotion last year to head department librarian. The only reason he declined was because he knew the headaches he would have for the salary, and he’d been happy where he was.

Until the woman who was promoted instead reviewed his file. Apparently he was overqualified for his position, and since he was no longer a student, he was required to step down and give the job to an undergraduate who could benefit from the experience.

That’s what the new department head claimed. Chris happened to know it was her nephew who took the position, and if that was coincidence, he’d be willing to apologize for all the nasty things he’d thought about her since then. Somehow, he doubted it. He poured himself another shot.

Being let go was just the tip of the iceberg, though. After leaving the university, he’d been optimistic. He lived in New York City, after all. Surely there’d be a library or university he could apply to—his level of education and experience alone should have guaranteed him employment faster than he could draft his resume. He contacted every institution he knew about; only four were accepting resumes, and after waiting over a month to hear back from them, Chris had to accept they weren’t going to call. Fighting the pang of frustrated futility, he surfed online ads and newspaper classifieds. He even called his ex-boyfriend in Waterbury to see if he knew of anything. Nothing turned up. Three months out he still had nothing.

Finally this morning he had broken down—he filled out an application for an entry level position at Barnes & Noble. He had a masters degree in literature, and he was applying for a minimum wage retail job. He could already hear the HR office complaining: _he’s overqualified_. But really, what else could he do? Life in New York City wasn’t cheap, and he’d rapidly burned through his severance package from the university. Even his savings account, which he only used to pay rent and utilities, was about to hit rock bottom. He needed a job, even if it was minimum wage. Something was better than nothing. And vodka was better than sitting by the phone waiting for it to ring. Add a little Pop Is Dead in the stereo, and he was ready for a night of shameless self-pity. He’d go back to pounding the pavement in the morning.

The crescendo of phone rings jarred him from his thoughts. He snapped up to snatch it from where it vibrated on the coffee table. “Hello?”

A voice came over the line. “Hon, are you drinking?”

Self-conscious, he countered, “It’s a Friday night, Bobby. Give me three good reasons I shouldn’t be.”

“Easy. One, you don’t have the money for it. Two, it’s Friday night in New York City—you should be out doing something more interesting than staring at the wall.”

Chris smirked. “Very funny. But you know the first point counters the second. I don’t have money to go out.”

“You do now,” Bobby rebutted. “Catherine needs wingmen, and you and I are prime candidates. I’ll cover your drinks if you come. I don’t want to be stuck at a club all by myself while she rockets off with the twink of her dreams.”

Catherine officially identified as a bisexual woman, but she had a taste for feminine bi men. It took a lot of guts for a woman to proposition a guy in a gay club, but it was Catherine’s favorite hunting grounds—Chris and Bobby often accompanied her just to keep her out of trouble.

Still, Chris felt bad enough about being broke. “Thanks, Bobby, really… But I don’t want you to have to pay for me, too. If she leaves you dry, stop by on your way home. You can help me finish the Smirnoff.”

“Oh, no you don’t,” came the answer. “I will come kidnap you if I have to.”

“But I—”

“No buts, sweetheart. I just ordered a cab—it’ll be there in half an hour. I’ll see you at the club.”

The call ended.

With a frustrated sigh, Chris flopped back on the couch. In fleeting resistance he considered canceling the cab when it showed up. But that was just a little too much effort to put into spending a lonely evening wallowing in self-pity and booze. He’d just go and keep Bobby company; it wouldn’t be too hard. He might even manage to enjoy himself.

....

The cab arrived in another twenty minutes. According to Bobby’s text, they were headed to a new club, one on the west side of Manhattan famous for its margaritas. After a few minutes of chatter, the cabby picked up on Chris’ silent mood and left him to his thoughts. Lights rolled by in a maddening rush; the city crawled with people, like a great nest of ants scrambling over each other to get to their destination, not caring if they tread on one another or if the person beside them was tall, short, gay, punk, homeless or loudly tourist. It was all NYC, and it was all beautiful. He’d moved here with his father for his senior year of high school, and he’d been in love ever since.

That was the bitterest part, Chris thought glumly as they moved deeper into Manhattan. If he couldn’t find a job in the city, he would have no choice but to apply to institutions further out, which meant possibly having to leave New York for good. Above all that thought depressed him; he tried not to think about it, but deep down, he knew his options were getting thin.

All thought of unemployment and its consequences went out the window when the cabby pulled up to the club. Bobby stood outside on the curb, looking everything like a hooker in his black boots, black leggings and altogether too-tight, neon pink mesh shirt. He’d finished the look with a black beret and a designer purse. He was the picture-perfect twink, and Chris grinned ear to ear when he saw him. For as much as he hated neon, Bobby pulled it off, and it accented his peaches-and-cream complexion.

Chris climbed out of the cab and reached for his wallet, but at that moment Bobby saw him and came running over.

“Oh, no you don’t,” Chris cut in.

Bobby was already pulling his billfold from his purse. “Don’t be silly, hon,” Bobby lilted playfully. “I ordered the cab and dragged you out here.” He leaned through the window and handed the cabby the fare while providing those waiting a perfect view of his ass.

Chris rolled his eyes. “Thanks, Bobby.”

Stepping back into the sidewalk’s flow of people, “Sure thing, hon. C’mon, Catherine’s inside waiting.”

The entrance to the club was a hole-in-the-wall hallway which led past the bouncer and into a dark, spacious bar area. A sprawling counter seated over a dozen, and a long line of booths extended from its boundary. In the far corner was a stage, just big enough to host a three-man band, though it was now sitting empty. The majority of the space was devoted to a dance floor packed with men. The fluid mix of dance music reverberated through floor and body, sending a tremor tingling in Chris’ fingertips. It was a low-key place on the outskirts, but the dancers moved with unreserved enthusiasm to the grinding beat of electropunk.

Bobby grabbed his hand and led him towards the first booth from the bar. They’d had a fling once, and though it didn’t last long, a physical familiarity lingered. In the end, Chris wasn’t enough of a bear for Bobby, and Bobby was a little too inflexible in the bedroom for Chris. But they’d emerged with friendship still intact.

When they got to the circular booth, Catherine sat waiting. Seeing them, her eyes brightened and she opened her arms in greeting. “You guys made it!” She was an enigma in their world—her low-cut blouse, crimson lipstick and curly brown hair tumbling across her shoulders gave her all the look of a feminine power-woman, hardly the sort one would expect to find in a punk gay bar.

Bobby slid in on one side to greet her with a kiss on the cheek, and Chris slid in on the other side for a warm hug. “How are you, Cathy?”

She smiled. “Not too shabby. Just watching the show.” She nodded out to the dance floor. “There’re some really good dancers out there tonight.”

Above the din of the music, Chris could hear the rumble of conversation to his left and right. He reclined a little, setting his sneaker up on the opposite seat. “Well, more power to ’em,” he said.

“Yeah…” Catherine smirked, glancing over to him. “That’s all right. We all know you can’t dance in that leather jacket.”

“I’d look completely ridiculous,” he agreed with a cynical smile. They all knew Chris didn’t dance; he was good at keeping their table when they went off on tail-chasing adventures and wild dance binges. It wasn’t his fault if he favored leather jackets and blue jeans to skin-tight mesh and spandex. It just made avoiding the dance floor easier. He ordered a double, and as Bobby took off into the madness, Chris settled in for a night of careless waiting.

....

The thudding bass of dance music reverberated in Tory’s chest. He moved to the drums, feeling the energy of the crowd surrounding him. It was the moment—the beautiful moment when he was untouchable. The world outside crawled with danger, hatred and fear and the roll of the dice, but here, in the darkness and rushing beat of melody and rhythm and celebration—here, he could lose himself. Here, he was alive.

As the last notes of the electronic beat faded into the blackened corners of the club, Tory wove his way through the outer ring of the dance floor and broke free of the crowd. Rolling chatter surrounded him as he stepped up to the bar. It was a large, dark spread with the traditional stools covered in new black leather. He’d always loved this club—just small enough to keep from being a major hot spot, and just large enough to keep fresh faces circulating through. He stepped up to the counter and motioned for a drink.

“Hey Tory,” the bartender greeted when he’d made his way around. “What’s it tonight?”

“Just a rum and coke,” he answered. “Trying to keep it light.”

He nodded. “You got it. Coming up.”

While he waited, Tory turned to survey the room. The place was reaching prime time, and the dance floor nearly burst at the seams with people laughing and moving with the beat of the latest song. It brought a small smile to his face.

Then, in the nearest corner, something caught his eye.

A man sat alone at a booth with a young woman. She was dressed to the nines, but they didn’t have the air of a couple—sitting on opposite sides of the table, talking only minimally in low voices. The man had a glass of hard alcohol in front of him, and he spun it with a mix of indifference and apathy. Appraising his features, the casual way he sat and the look of weariness, he guessed the man must have been in his late twenties.

It struck a chord in Tory’s chest; curiosity rose, and he let it come, playing with the idea. He allowed his gaze to linger, soaking in the gentle curve of the t-shirt beneath his jacket and the dusting of a five o’clock shadow on his jaw. The man had a kind of rebel style and devil-may-care edge that called to him, like the twine of a melody searching for a harmonic note. He hid a smile in a drink, then decided his mind. He couldn’t be the first one to make a move—he rarely was. Make the first move, and all the power and pressure was in the other person’s court. He’d let the man make the first move, and then he would know it was genuine. He settled in for another drink and cast his gaze back to the man with unassuming interest every few minutes. Eventually the guy’d get the hint. And if not, there were plenty of other people to dance with tonight.

....

“Damn…” Bobby sighed, flopping back down at the table after a spree of dancing. “There’s some hot candy out there.”

“Speaking of which…” Catherine said, sipping her margarita. “That guy over at the bar’s been staring at Chris for the last twenty minutes.”

Startled, Chris’ gaze flew out to the bar. He saw who she meant immediately.

He was big—six foot, with a muscular, streamlined build that reminded Chris of a swimmer’s physique. His navy blue t-shirt clung in all the right places, and a strong jaw and dirty-blond hair gave him a distinctly Nordic look. He leaned back against the bar, facing the dance floor. As Chris turned, the man’s gaze slid away. Subtle, but not subtle enough to mean embarrassment at being caught.

Chris’ gut turned in a knot.

Bobby wasn’t so shy. “Oh my god, Chris!” he ejected. “He’s gorgeous!”

Chris spun his whiskey nervously, and said nothing.

Bobby’s eyes widened in disbelief. “You are going to go talk to him, aren’t you?”

He shrugged. “And say what? ‘Hi, I’m nearly thirty, can’t get a job and have a degree in fairy tales?’ Oh yeah, I’m sure that would impress him.”

Catherine’s expression softened at his acerbity. “Don’t talk like that, Chris. You’ve got a masters degree, you’re smart, sarcastic and you’ve got a lot to offer. He’s obviously interested in your body already…”

Chris glanced back to where the man stood still watching the dance floor. He was gorgeous. And had just the right mixture of masculinity and grace Chris so often found irresistible.

“Hon,” Bobby leaned in to confide, “if you don’t go talk to him, I will.”

“Screw that,” Catherine chimed playfully. “I saw him first!”

Finally, “Alright, alright!” Chris gave in. “I’ll go talk to him.” They’d both seen Catherine proposition gay men. They’d also both seen her strap on and knew she meant it.

Chris downed the dregs of his whiskey and rose, making his way over to the bar through the flux of the crowd.

He’d never considered himself to be timid, but in the face of a man so obviously confident and relaxed, Chris found himself shrinking a bit. He opted for casual, and earned only a fleeting glance as he came to stand beside the man, leaning over the bar to order, “Whiskey,” from the attending bartender. He chanced a glance; the other still stood easily on his right, saying nothing—he was waiting for Chris to make the first move.

Swallowing his nervousness, Chris tried: “What are you drinking?”

Quite unexpectedly, the man laughed. “A masters degree in fairy tales, and that’s the best you can manage?”

Chris was surprised to find his voice warm and welcoming; his look of shock must have been plain, because the man qualified,

“Your friend’s voices carry in here.”

He felt a flush come to his cheeks. Embarrassed, he answered, “Well, flirting isn’t really my forte.”

This earned an appreciative smile—warm and charming, and yet seductive, too.

Chris knew he was in trouble. Feeling slightly defensive: “You know all about me then.”

He nodded. “Almost thirty, no job, and for some reason, an interest in books. And you hate to dance.”

Chris shifted uncomfortably and considered retreat; it was by far the most embarrassing first impression he’d ever made. “Well? My cards are on the table.”

The man sensed his withdrawal; he leaned in and said more quietly, “Look, I don’t care that you’re unemployed. I’m not looking for a stand-up citizen to pay for dinner and talk about the Giants.” His eyes were a bright, clear blue, and they pinned Chris in earnest warmth.

The tug of that warmth soothed his nerves, and his wounded pride. “I… I’m Chris,” he finally gave.

The man took a sip of his drink, smiling roguishly. “Tory,” he offered.

A silence fell between them, filled with the thrum of bass and chattering voices all around. Chris hung for a moment, unsure he should stay. And then, a certain pang of resolve rooted his feet—he committed. “Well, Tory,” he mused, matching the man’s casual stance. “If you’re not looking for a sugar daddy, and you’re not looking for a sports buddy… What are you looking for?”

He smiled. “Actually, Chris… I’m looking for a dance partner.”

That surprised him. “But you know I don’t dance.”

“I know you haven’t,” Tory continued smiling. “But I’d bet once I get you out there, you’ll change your mind. I’d like to show you a good time.”

Said with such a seductive undertone, Chris couldn’t help but read the double meaning. His breath hitched, but he asserted, “I’m not really looking for sex tonight…”

Tory was unfazed. “I never said anything about sex, did I? I just want to dance. So come on.” He reached over, taking Chris’ hand in his, and dragged him, stunned, onto the dance floor.

....

The bass of the music beat in Chris’ veins, the melody pounded into his heart, rocking his senses and pulling him from the gutter of his dismal world. He couldn’t dance, not really. But when Tory took his hand and pulled him close, the roll of his hips and fluid footsteps pulled him in, as well, until his hips were rolling and gyrating to the rhythm, safe in Tory’s guardianship. A laugh rumbled from his chest, a gentle acceptance of the madness. In the back of his mind, he knew he probably looked like an idiot. But as long as Tory’s smiling eyes held him prisoner, he didn’t care.

Tory himself was an exceptional dancer. He moved with inherent grace, like the music played to the beat of his body and not vice versa. He showed no qualm about letting his hands wander Chris’ body, but there was no presumption in it. Only earnest and salacious joy in the music, the movement of their bodies and the exhileration of the dance.

Chris could have danced in his arms all night, but eventually Tory pulled him in for a final spin and released him. With a hearty laugh, he teased, “Come on, suave. Let’s sit down for a bit.”

Chris’ cheeks flushed, but he nodded. A hand twined his own, and he followed Tory out of the mayhem of the dance floor and into an unoccupied booth near the end. He knew Bobby and Catherine were still out in the crowd somewhere—they wouldn’t have left without him—but right now his attention focused completely on the unexpected stranger in front of him.

He collapsed on the bench, sinking into the leather with a satisfied sigh. Beside him, Tory was chuckling.

“For a guy who doesn’t like dancing, you keep one hell of a beat,” he laughed.

Chris shook his head. “That was all you.” He realized they were close, leaning against each other in tipsy merriment. Tory’s solid body felt comforting, and the musky scent of his cologne mingled with their sweat to create a comforting evidence of their exertion. “I’ve never… never been a dancer.”

A knowing gleam entered Tory’s eye. “I guess you just needed the right partner.”

Warmth spread through his being. He didn’t address the prior comment, letting it rest in the camaraderie that settled between them. When the waitress had come and gone, Chris managed, “So, what’s your story?”

Tory grinned. “What do you mean?” The honey in his voice was open, undefensive.

“I mean, you’ve heard my story, thanks to the acoustics in this place and my loud friends. What’s yours?”

He shrugged. “There’s not much to tell. Grew up in the sticks, moved to the city and enlisted in the army.”

“You’re army?” Chris asked with surprise.

Another laugh, as if in private joke. “What, you don’t think army guys can dance?”

“No. You just don’t strike me as the ‘storm the castle’ type.”

The words struck a discord in Tory. His smile faded, but only for a second. He explained, “I’ve been army all my life. Was overseas for a few years, then got honorably discharged for a shoulder wound. Turns out a soldier who can’t handle the recoil of an assault rifle is kind of useless on the ground.”

This both impressed Chris and provoked his curiosity. “So now you spend your nights in gay clubs picking up unsuspecting dance partners, who you have no intention of sleeping with, who you just want to show a good time.”

The sarcasm brought back Tory’s playful laugh. “That’s about right.”

“So how do I rank, then?” Chris nudged him.

His brows raised. “What do you mean?”

“If you spend your nights picking up dance partners, how do I rank? Did I blow you away with my complete ineptitude?”

A flicker of intensity flashed across his features, mellowed by the alcohol and their closeness.

The smirk on Tory’s lips was suddenly fascinating, the soft pink of their quirked up corners, the fullness of their pout. They mesmerized Chris; he knew they were close—close enough to taste.

In the space of a breath, Tory’s lips pressed his own.

It was a quiet kiss, sudden, soft, and over in an instant. They remained close afterward—close enough to feel the heat of one another’s breath. Chris’ gaze darted from Tory’s lips to his eyes: dilated, yet full of that irresistible charm he couldn’t deny. With a smile, he drew Tory in for another.

A wild hoot spiked out in the crowd. Chris pulled back to see Bobby out on the dance floor, looking their way with a split-second of triumph.

He flushed red. When he looked back to Tory, he found an honest smile of amusement.

“Looks like your friend approves,” he grinned playfully.

With a smirk, Chris laced his hand through Tory’s own. “Yeah. He’s gonna get an ass-kicking later.”

A moment passed, and Tory’s smile didn’t fade. On impulse, Chris leaned in and offered, “Do you want to get out of here? We could head back to my place. Just to talk,” he qualified, remembering Tory’s earlier comment. “I just…” Uncomfortably he admitted, “I don’t have much cash to go somewhere else.”

For a moment, Tory hesitated, as though it wasn’t what he expected. But then, under the dim lights and pounding grind of club music, he agreed. “I’m in.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a head's up - ended up having to shift the Prologue and Chapter 1 together, because every time I updated it changed the chapter numbers/titles of these two to match each other. Combining them into one to avoid having to renumber/re-title over and over again. :P Shouldn't make a difference to new readers, but just in case someone's coming back for another go.
> 
> Apologies in advance for any confusion.


	2. Tumble

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chris and Tory get to know each other.

“I shit you not,” Chris laughed as he pushed through the front door to his apartment building. “That is the entirety of Greek mythology in one sentence.”

Close on his heels, Tory could not keep from bursting in echoing laughter. He’d spent the cab ride prodding Chris with questions about his life and why he cared so much about stories people made up thousands of years ago. It eventually devolved into a discourse on Zeus’ phallic habits, but Tory had a good laugh at it. Chris had never met someone so uneducated in mythology, yet so eager and attentive. Usually people had a fascination with mythology and so a depth of familiarity with it, or they had no interest at all. Tory seemed the best of both worlds. He eagerly indulged in his curiosity as they ascended the stairs up to Chris’ apartment on the fourth floor.

“And Hera didn’t do anything?” Tory asked earnestly. “Her lover went around sleeping with all those other women, and she didn’t castrate him?”

“Nope,” Chris echoed. “She did plenty to the women, turning them into plants and monsters and things like that, but she never did anything to Zeus. I guess she thought separating him from his lovers was punishment enough.”

They reached the landing, and Chris lead the way through to the door marked with #411. His keys jangled, and he gestured with a flourish, “Home sweet home.” The door opened, and they passed through.

Tory entered the apartment with the same casual grace he did everything, gaze flitting around the studio layout. A queen-sized bed sat in the corner with a black duvet cover folded neatly, and books lay strewn across the headboard in haphazard piles. A small kitchen and marble-top island stood in the opposite corner; a large black couch and coffee table occupied the rest of the space, on which the half-full bottle of vodka and shot glass still rested.

Chris rubbed his neck in embarrassment. “Yeah… It’s not much, but it’s home.”

Tory didn’t seem to notice; he meandered towards the bookcase by the bed, perusing the spread of books with a small, quirking smile. “You like books,” he finally said.

Chris followed him over with a shrug. “It’s kind of what I do.”

In genuine appreciation, Tory leaned over and planted a kiss full on Chris’ mouth. It sent a rush of warmth through his being, and without a second thought, he pulled closer. It continued this time, longer as they lingered in the taste of each other’s mouths.

Tory pulled back a moment, an edge of laughter in his voice. "Talking?"

“Revised definition,” Chris managed. Another kiss, hungry this time. Swirling tongues joined the cadence. Their bodies melded against one another by intuitive force, and Chris could 't pull away, didn't want to. 

Tory moaned in appreciation as Chris brought their bodies flush in friction. He was breathless, sliding Tory’s jacket to the floor. He wanted Tory—god, he wanted him. But Tory was with him, hand on his neck, his chest, every inch of his torso and arms and it was almost overwhelming. Chris’ own jacket fell to the floor, but he didn’t care. Every touch, every taste of Tory only created a demand for more.

Tory shifted and fell back on the bed, pulling Chris down atop him. Their bodies collided again, and Chris moved farther, straddling Tory and running his hands down his chest. A flickering moment of doubt moved through his mind, but he discarded it, slipping further down into the warmth beneath Tory’s fly.

A moan was the answer, deep and hungry. Tory’s breath gasped in his ear, and Chris loosed the button, letting the hard cock spill out into his palm. It seared with heat and caused a stir in Chris, wanting more than ever to taste Tory, feel him move, catch his breaths and moans with kisses. He began moving his hand, ghosting over the swollen shaft.

“I thought… you didn’t do sex on a first date,” Tory grinned.

Chris covered his mouth in another kiss. “I changed my mind.”

Tory’s clear eyes pinned him in dark, dilated agreement. “I like that.”

“…That I changed my mind?” he asked puckishly. “Or what my hand is doing?”

A playful smile, and Tory hooked Chris’ waist to roll atop him. “Both.”

He tried to keep his head clear, but having Tory suddenly above him sent a rush of heat through his body, spurred by the sight of Tory’s now hard cock in his face. He knew Tory was giving him a signal—that he'd rather run the show. He’d also seen the depth in Tory’s eyes and knew there was more beneath the surface. With a smirk, he rolled again, pinning the big man beneath him. Surprise flashed across Tory’s features, but Chris leaned in, kissing him in reassurance. He slid a hand down Tory's chest and took his cock in hand, stroking gently. “Pitching or catching?” he wanted to know.

A heartbeat, a moment as Tory’s eyes fluttered closed in warring pleasure, and he arched into the touch. “Depends,” he answered at last. He brought a hand to Chris’ neck, pulling him down to murmur in his ear. “But right now… I want your cock in me.”

An answering pulse beat through Chris’ veins. There was an earnestness, a surrender in his voice. He didn’t understand this—the sudden draw, like a magnetic field pulling him in to Tory’s orbit that made him want unravel him, taste his skin and make him moan in need. Chris bit at his earlobe, pressing more firmly down into the bed. “I think I can do that,” he murmured back. He gripped Tory’s cock with rough determination. "I want to see you shoot,” he decided. “So hard you scream.”

Tory moaned. His breath across Chris’ skin felt sweet, and welcoming. Chris nipped more playfully at the hollow of his neck, then reached to the nightstand for a condom and lube. A dissatisfied sigh came at his withdrawal, but then he was back, peeling Tory’s jeans and t-shirt off the rest of the way. He was gorgeous, spread naked against the solid black of the comforter. A half-moan escaped Chris’ throat, and his hand went to his own fly, unbuttoning the layers of fabric with attempted reserve. “How do you like it?” he wondered, running a gentle hand along Tory’s thigh as the other’s eyes darkened further in anticipation.

He bit his lip, and confessed: “Slow. And gentle.” A deep breath. “Make it last.”

Brought to his knees by the man below him, Chris could only nod.

....

Confusion warred in Tory’s chest. He couldn’t understand this—the way Chris affected him. Tory never spoke first; he never asked, never decided how things would go. He was the canvas, the other the artist. He took what they gave and enjoyed it for what it was. He was the catalyst, never the one changed.

He never felt the way he did when Chris' hands wandered his skin. He never answered like this, when Chris’ sharp eyes held him prisoner.  He’d never wanted anything like he did this man.

In moments, Chris’ warm mouth descended to meet his, and any confusion was lost in the heady sensations of skin on skin, lust matching lust, admiration fueling desire. The lubed shaft of Chris’ cock slid salaciously across him, teasing without entering. He trembled, unable to speak beyond, “God… please…”

With a reassuring kiss, Chris pressed inward, pushing his cock past his outer ring, then moving slowly, tenderly, deeper in.

A moan of intensity welled in him, insuppressible. His body yielded and he raised his legs higher, accommodating more of Chris’ length. It was just like he wanted: slow, sensual, and deliberate. In moments he felt at home in the embrace Chris wrapped him in, moving with gentle precision until he was filled to the hilt. His breath trembled, matched by Chris’ own.

“Oh… fuck,” Chris sighed in pleasure. He moved slowly, withdrawing then impaling once more. His hips settled into a slow, uneven rhythm that drove Tory to the edge of his control. And when Chris’ hand reached down, grasping his weeping cock with a gentle grip, tugging in time with his thrusts, Tory fell speechless, arching to meet each impale. His arms wrapped around Chris’ neck, bringing him in for a desperate kiss. “Faster,” he murmured against his mouth. “…But gentle. I want it to last.”

....

Chris’ mind moved in haze clouded by the rolling sensations sweeping through his body. The salacious depth of Tory’s ass, the scent of sweat and cologne and sex. The silk press of skin on skin, now slick with sweat. The tense and tremor of Tory’s body beneath him as each thrust sent him into a new peak of intensity. He heightened the flux of his hips, driving deeper, faster, but with gentle care until he couldn’t hold any longer. “I’m gonna come,” he gasped, tightening his grip on Tory’s cock. “Oh god…”

“Not yet,” Tory pleaded. “...More,” his voice cracked in a desperate plea. “I need more.”

It sent Chris into a spiral, and he wrapped himself in restraint, keeping the impending wave of lightning from his body. He felt it coming, surging through his blood. Everywhere he turned his arousal heightened by the sight of Tory’s hard body, his pale skin, his pink lips parted in panting breaths. He bit his lip, wanting more from him. He held on by willpower, out of need to see this man in complete abandon. He drove faster, leaning down to kiss him, tasting the vulnerability Tory granted more with every passing second. "Just let go,” he rasped; he didn’t know where the words came from, only that Tory needed them. “Give in, babe… Just let go.”

Tory gasped. He cried out, a begging rasp of expletives. His body tensed, his hips spasmed, and he came so hard it splattered across his chest.

The tidal wave Chris rode broke at the sudden jolt. He came, and came, and came. Time stopped, or disappeared; he couldn’t be sure. Chris felt the air around them quiet as they rode the wave of release roaring like a flood through them both. Tory lay gasping and shaking. Chris leaned down and wrapped him in his arms.

They lay like that for minutes, chests heaving in tandem. Through the muscle and bone of Tory’s breast, Chris could feel the thud of his heart.

At last, when the final tremor dissipated from their bodies and the outer world began to enter Chris’ awareness, Tory shifted, lowering his legs. Chris accommodated, still buried in his partner. He looked down on Tory, whose quiet, content smile reassured him with acceptance. Strong as ever, warm as ever. Chris couldn’t help himself—he leaned down and kissed him breathless.

“Holy shit...” he murmured against Tory’s lips.

His rumbling chuckle vibrated across Chris’ skin. “I like you, too.”

He couldn’t put a name to it, the way that voice affected him. Like a hurricane, and a summer breeze. In the aftermath of it, Chris realized how bold he’d been in those final few moments. It wasn’t like him—to be so intimate.

The thought brought self-consciousness; with a gentle kiss, he pulled away. An audible sigh came from Tory as his softening shaft slipped free, but Chris didn’t linger. He rose, tossed the spent condom into the trash and threw Tory a roll of paper towels. A silence settled between them, both wrapped in their own adjustment to the newly-forged bond between them.

Finally, “So…” Chris asked, “What are your plans for the rest of the night?”

Tory glanced around to the stacks of books surrounding them. “Spending it in a library, apparently.”

He blushed, a sensation altogether unfamiliar. “They’re… reassuring. Better than a lot of the people out there,” he waved indiscriminately out the window.

“Which one is your favorite?”

The playful edge of the question held a challenge. Chris thought momentarily, perusing those scattered over his headboard and strewn across the shelves. At last, leaning over to pick his choice, he said, “ _The Iliad._ The first epic poem I ever read. I still love it.”

This pleased Tory. He scanned the worn leather cover as Chris joined his side. Tentatively he reached out to stroke the gold-embossed lettering, tracing the winding words. “What’s it about?”

“The Greek conquest of Troy. Lots of warriors and battles. And love,” he added. “It’s the primary source for Achilles and Patroclus.”

A small smile graced Tory’s features as he glanced up to appreciate the fondness on Chris’ face. “Read it to me?” he asked.

“Now?”

“Why not? We can pour drinks, and you can read me stories of ancient love.”

It was the oddest post-sex proposition he’d ever received. Yet, it felt right. A spark of happiness warmed his chest, and he smiled. “Stay there. I’ll get the vodka.”

....

 _"'Hear from my mouth,' said he, 'Trojans and Achaeans, the saying of Alexandrus, through whom this quarrel has come about. He bids the Trojans and Achaeans lay their armor upon the ground, while he and Menelaus fight in the midst of you..._ "

They stayed up late into the night. Archaic names rolled from Chris’ lips as he lay in bed, surrounded by Tory’s arms. The big man ran his hands absently through Chris’ hair, drinking in the sound of his laugh and rolling rhythm of his voice.

When at last the even rise and fall of Tory’s chest betrayed sleep, Chris smiled gently to himself—it had been the strangest, and happiest, night of his life. Quietly he reached over to place the book on his headboard, pulled the sheets up around them and settled into a gentle sleep, engulfed in Tory’s embrace.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Info on [Achilles and Patroclus](https://www.cliffsnotes.com/literature/i/the-iliad/character-analysis/patroklos) and [The Iliad](http://www.ancient-literature.com/greece_homer_iliad.html). The excerpt Chris read is from Book III, modified slightly from the Samuel Butler prose translation.


	3. Face the Music

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning for violent war-based flashbacks.

The next morning, Chris woke engulfed in warmth.

It was an odd feeling. The softness of the sheets slid against his skin, and the skin of another pressed his own; arms cradled him in a gentle, secure hold. He hadn’t had that since his last boyfriend over a year ago. He rested in it easily, enjoying the tangible body of another against his.

There was something else, too, though Chris wouldn't have admitted it, even to himself. There was an ache and a certainty, being wrapped in Tory’s arms, waking up at his side. He felt, in the shadowy reaches of the morning, that he could be content here. Somehow he knew he could wake up years from now, next to this man, and be happy.

It was a fleeting thought; Chris dismissed it with hollow reason. He’d known Tory one night. He didn’t even know his last name. There was no such thing as love at first sight. Or first fuck.

He lay in quiet contemplation for a few minutes, then opened his eyes. Checking the clock, he realized it was already rather late in the day—11 AM. Nearly lunch time. With reluctance, he stirred and pried himself from the embrace. Tory didn’t even shift.

A small smile came to Chris’ lips. In the full light of the morning sun, Tory was a unique man. The strong features that defined his face might have been intimidating on another, but Chris knew the warmth of Tory’s eyes, the grace in his movement, and knew that there was a playful and enigmatic man beneath the surface.

An idea came to his mind—he’d get cleaned up then dispel any awkwardness with breakfast.

....

_The ground shook. Incoming fire blasted the cliffs to his right, and he ducked to avoid a hail of shrapnel. “Dante, take the flank!” he bellowed to the radio on his shoulder. “Bravo, cover the retreat!” The rifle in his hand cocked and clicked—another smattering of bullets had him pinned, but he timed the rounds and turned to fire. Five shots off, duck to reload. Five shots again, pinning the bastards in return. Where was Dante?_

_“Captain!”_

_The cry came from his right. He turned in time to see Levi take a shot to the head. The man crumpled and Tory shouted, but it wouldn’t do any good and he had to take down these hostiles before anyone else died. “Dante!” he called over the radio. “Where the hell—”_

_A star exploded on the horizon._

…

Tory woke with a gasp. Sweat covered his skin; his heart raced; a softness surrounded him. He was wrapped in something—fabric. It shifted against his skin.

A bed. He was in a bed.

Dreams crumbled to reality; the pale sunlight bathing his face brought him back to the world. His eyes flickered open—an unfamiliar room lined with bookcases met him. The soft blue of the sheets called back memories of last night. There had been a man. A man whose eyes cut to his core, who’d gathered the shattered shards of his being and made him feel whole. He hadn’t been able to deny it, and wanted more.

A clank brought him fully to wake. He rose up on an elbow, looking toward the sound.

Chris stood in the black marble kitchen opposite, with a spatula and frying pan over the stove. On hearing him stir, Chris turned, and his face bloomed in a smile. “Morning.”

Tory ruffled a hand through his hair. He cleared his throat. “Morning.”

“I’m making breakfast,” Chris offered. “How do you like your eggs?”

A moment of hesitation flitted through. Then, “…Scrambled.”

Chris cracked two more eggs in the pan and stirred in spices. A silence settled between them, almost, but not quite awkward. There was strength about Chris, Tory realized. A certain assurance of movement, even in the uncertainty of waking next to a man he’d only met last night. The intimacy of it—watching him make breakfast while lying naked in his bed—struck Tory deeply. A chord of sadness resounded in his chest: he knew couldn’t stay.

“It’s ready,” Chris chimed as he scraped the contents of the pan onto two plates and set them at the bar.

Tory rose, pulling on his clothes. The wan light of a New York sky filtered through the blinds, reminding him of the world beyond the walls of this sanctuary: the destruction and possibility, the hard turn of the world’s wheel. He shouldn’t have stayed. “What time is it?” he asked, still a bit disoriented.

Chris glanced behind him to the wall clock. “Almost noon. We slept late,” he added with apology. “I hope that’s alright…”

He surveyed the breakfast spread before him, and forced the lie from his mouth. “Actually… I need to get to work. Can I take a rain check?”

....

The comment sent a jolt of insecurity through Chris’ happiness—the expression on Tory’s face was an apology… Not at all what he had hoped. He tried to keep a casual non-frown in place, even as disappointment threatened to break through. “Oh… Sure,” he accommodated. “Sorry I kept you late…”

A charming smile took Tory’s lips, one that promised there were no grudges. “I didn’t plan on meeting someone worth staying late for,” he encouraged. Grabbing his jacket off the back of the couch, he swept in to steal a kiss from Chris’ lips. Then he added, “I’ll see you around.”

Startled by the impromptu exit, Chris started after him. “Here, let me give you my number,” he tried.

Tory didn’t seem to hear him. He was halfway to the door before a thought occurred, and he paused to turn. “Oh, I was going to tell you last night… There’s a help wanted sign in the window of a bookstore near my work, over on 60th and 2nd. I don’t know if that’s your thing or not, but…” He shrugged, and smiled playfully. “Books are books, right?”

With that, he disappeared out the door.

Chris stood, still in last night’s clothes, with a nearly-dropped jaw. Like being left in the wake of a natural disaster, he couldn’t take another step. He wasn’t sure what just happened, or why. But the man of is dreams had just walked out the door without so much as a goodbye, and only a job suggestion to remember him by.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...And they're off. If it's not already apparent, Tory is an unreliable narrator. Epic-level unreliable. But we'll get there. :)
> 
> The rifle he carries in his dream is a [Springfield M1903](https://s-media-cache-ak0.pinimg.com/736x/bd/c2/ba/bdc2ba4add54ab0dd1c8b18064fb0cb1.jpg).


	4. Brand New Day

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The strangest interview of Chris' life. And bagels.
> 
> Or, Chris doesn't give up easy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title taken from [Brand New Day](https://youtu.be/LPI1bpujRrs) by Ryan Star.

Wounded by the morning’s events, Chris took some time to gather himself again. On impulse, he pulled up a list of bookstores in Manhattan—there weren’t any marked on the cross-streets Tory mentioned. Not that it would have lessened the ache in his chest, but…

 _Shit._ This was why he didn’t do casual sex. It always ended in a mess.

Frustrated, he sighed and accepted the fact there was nothing he could do. Not to change what had happened. Stewing about a stranger who’d hung him out to dry would solve nothing.  

He showered and dressed, then hit the pavement like he had every week for months.

 

....

“Alright, thank you,” Chris said courteously to the attending clerk. His last stop of the day had turned into an unmitigated disaster. The woman behind the counter, a bookish thirty-something with purple hipster glasses, had barely glanced at his resume before stating the manager was not in.

“We’ll be in touch,” she assured disingenuously.

Chris had been through enough meaningless pleasantries to know her smile was forced. Whether the position had already been unofficially filled, or she just didn’t like him, Chris couldn’t say. He did know it meant his resume was getting moved to the bottom of the stack.

 _Shit_ , he thought as he pulled his coat closer around his chest and stepped out into the mass flow of people on the sidewalk. That was it, then—another day of leads, and disappointment. He’d take the subway back to the East Side, drown himself in a pint of cheap ice cream and Smirnoff and hope for more tomorrow.

The bustle of people fluxed and flowed down the city sidewalk, like a stream of living bodies all rushing to get wherever they were going fast enough they wouldn’t regret the time wasted in each other’s company. Chris let himself be carried by it, only half paying attention. Grey clouds hung over the city with half-hearted menace, and a light drizzle made it even harder to concentrate on his task. He found his mind wandering, scanning peripheries and taking in the scenery. It was a tourist move, but right now, he didn’t care.

That’s when he saw it—the _Help Wanted_ sign resting inconspicuously in the corner window of a three story brick building. The bright orange of the lettering first caught his eye, but when his gaze flitted across the brick stone of the edifice, his heart jumped; it was a bookstore. _Masque & Blade Books _scrawled across a vintage Victorian sign, swirled in letters that flirted with the reader to investigate further. That alone brought Chris to a standstill. The people behind him kept walking without so much as flinching, and they bumped and jostled past with a vague air of annoyance. Feeling like a tourist, Chris moved toward the edge of the crowd to get a closer look.

The building was red brick, and obviously old. Its walls connected with the larger two buildings on its left and right. A bay window displayed antique, leather bound books on stands. At the center of the display sat a large, thick tome that looked older than the building itself _._ Chris’ heart leapt in his chest when he saw it: _Bullfinch’s Mythology._

Then he realized—this was it. This was exactly where Tory had told him to go. Why the shop hadn’t shown up on Google, he didn’t know. The thought of letting a one-night-stand guide him to a jobsite filled Chris with spite; for a moment, he hesitated. But after the meeting he’d just had… He shook his head. A job was a job, no matter who suggested it. If he nailed his interview, this could be the place.

He tucked the paperwork from his other stops down the inside pocket of his trench coat. Straightening his scarf and running a hand through his hair, he moved toward the antique front door.

A bell announced his arrival.

The shop was a quaint little place, bigger on the inside that his first assessment from out on the street. Grey light poured through the front windows, casting a cold autumn glow on the shelves and armchairs decorating the initial entry way. From the layout, Chris guessed the shop probably functioned as a residence once, but years of commercial development had knocked down walls and remodeled the finishing: textured green carpet spread luxuriously out to the four corners of the retail space, which was spacious, considering. Large oak bookcases lined the walls and stood ceiling-high in rows. Chris felt all too familiar with the pattern—like a public library, orderly and hushed. Back on the far wall, he caught sight of a massive brick fireplace flanked by armchairs and stained-glass Tiffany lamps. In total, it impressed him with an air of a grandfatherly comfort; cozy but clean.

Which is why, when he turned to the counter to his left, he was surprised to find a teenage boy at the register.

Dressed stylishly in a white t-shirt and black skinny jeans, the boy gave off a sullen vibe, leaning over the counter to peruse a magazine. He had a waifish build, like puberty hadn’t quite hit yet, though by his height Chris guessed him to be around thirteen. A large shock of blond hair hung down over his eyes in a style Chris had seen in the clubs lately, a modified pixie cut that masked one of the boy’s eyes, which were outlined in solid black charcoal. The contrast of it against his hair gave the boy the appearance of a ghost. And his posture clearly stated: _I don’t care_. Chris knew that attitude—it used to be his.

The boy didn’t look up to acknowledge his arrival, even as Chris approached the sprawling wood counter. His feet traversed carpet until he stood less than a foot from the register; in passing glance, he noticed with surprise the magazine he perused displayed complex graphs of celestial events, nebulas and black holes. And the boy flipped through the pages like a supermarket tabloid.

Slightly unnerved, Chris stood quietly for a moment. When the young clerk didn’t look up, or give any indication he’d heard him enter, Chris cleared his throat: “Excuse me.”

The boy didn’t respond.

Chris plowed on. “I’m here to ask about the job opening advertised in the window. Is there a manager around?”

He flipped another page. The magazine seemed to be academic in nature. Lots of fine print accented the diagrams. “Do you have your resume?”

Chris shifted uncomfortably. “I’m sorry?”

“Your resume,” the boy repeated with disinterest. “Let me see it.”

Flustered, Chris produced his resume from his coat pocket. “Are you… Do you know the owner?” he tried. He couldn’t help but feel he was missing something.

The boy didn’t care. He flipped the paperwork around to glance at it, surveying it with the same disinterest as his magazine. After a moment, he reached for the phone at his elbow. Picking up the receiver, he punched a button and spoke half-heartedly into the end, not even bothering to bring the speaker to his ear. “Applicant is here.” He set the receiver back down with a solid click, and went back to reading.

Chris stood in awkward silence for a few moments, noting with discomfort he still has no idea what was happening.

Then the door to the right of the counter opened. A man emerged, clad in black. Chris’ stomach flipped.

He stood tall, around six feet, with long, lanky legs. His chest and arms filled his black dress shirt well; his sleeves rolled up casually. Chris followed the press of buttons up to a pale throat, and then to a pointed jaw and sharp, porcelain cheekbones set in contrast to his ink-black hair. Worn in a short cut, it left his eyes bare—glinting, ice-blue eyes that simultaneously pierced him through and laughed at him.

For a moment, Chris just stared. Then he realized the man must be who the boy buzzed, and he was headed straight toward them. As he approached, Chris saw the man give him a once-over with a glint of appraisal—sizing him up in a way that both made him shift uncomfortably and flush in unexpected curiosity.

The man’s eyes darted casually to Chris’ own as he reached them, and there locked. “Are you the applicant?”

Startled, Chris fumbled over his words. “I… Yes, that’s me.” Suddenly remembering his etiquette, he extended his hand. “Chris. Chris Hayes. I heard you were taking applications.”

The boy shuffled his resume towards the man, who lifted it from the edge of the counter. He scanned the document briefly as a small smirk came to his face. “A pleasure to meet you, Chris.” Replacing the paper, the man smiled and accepted the handshake. “My name is Hector Raethgard, and I am the owner. We are looking for a sales clerk.”

With curiosity, Chris noted the measured tones of Hector’s speech—nearly imperceptible, but it added a layer of music to his voice. “I would love to be considered,” he replied. “As you can see, I have plenty of experience…”

“Yes. I presume you have time for an interview?” he asked.

Again, Chris was caught off guard. “I… Yes, absolutely!”

Hector smiled—something about that grin reminded Chris of a Cheshire cat, satisfied for reasons not entirely innocent. “Then follow me.”

....

He followed Hector through the door he’d emerged from and found himself in a long, dark hallway. On his right, rickety-looking stairs led up and out of sight, but Hector took the more direct course toward a lit doorway at the end of the hall. Stepping through, Chris quickly observed walls of books surrounding a large, oak desk piled with more leather-bound volumes, some spread open, and others stacked to the side on the green carpet. A thick smell, like burning incense, filled his nose in the warm light. No window broke the high bookshelves. It was a den—Hector’s den.

Gesturing to the pair of leather armchairs opposite the desk, Hector invited, “Please, have a seat.” He set the resume on the desk behind him, though he didn't give it a second look. “Would you care for a drink? Water, or perhaps a scotch?”

Startled, Chris tried to remain casual. “Uh… No thank you.”

This amused Hector, and he leaned back against his desk with crossed arms. “As you can see, it’s a small shop,” he began easily. “I opened the doors one year ago, for the purpose of supporting my nephew during his studies.”

The relationship slid into place. Chris nodded. “He seems like an intelligent kid.”

A wry smile slid across Hector’s features. “He is exceedingly intelligent. Above all, you must understand this. He will not tolerate being spoken down to.”

Chris only nodded.

“He assists with the register when needed, but he now requires full focus on his studies. And I find myself in need of a third staff member.”

“What would the primary duties be?”

“Mostly sales, to begin with. Manning the register and keeping the shop clean. If you prove yourself able, your duties will expand.” A hand came to rest on his chin with curiosity. “You don’t seem the sort to inquire about a retail position.”

Clearing his throat, Chris tried to answer gracefully. “I prefer to work autonomously, so retail hasn’t been my area. But I think my experience and education would be valuable to your customers here.”

“Yes…” Hector mused, glancing back at the paper on his desk. “Ancient and medieval literature… A rather obscure choice of specialty.”

Self-conscious, Chris said nothing.

“So tell me,” he asked. “What is your favorite story?”

The question struck him, an echo. “I… I’m sorry?”

Hector appraised him with calm certainty. “I’ve learned you can tell quite a lot about a person by the stories they enjoy. Some like grand tales of chaos and fate, others enjoy the comfort of everyday ventures. What is your taste?”

With faltering surety, Chris decided, “Hellenic epics, I suppose.”

“Ah, the Greeks. Do you enjoy Homer then? _The Iliad_ , or _The Odyssey_?”

Unnerved, Chris could only answer, “The Iliad.”

A quirk of a smile. “Tales of warfare…” This seemed to please him. “Well, Chris, I have just one more concern. I keep odd hours—a few early mornings, but more often late nights. Do you have any external commitments, religious duties or perhaps a significant other that would interfere with this?”

The question left Chris stunned. No employer in their right mind would ask a question like that; it begged for a lawsuit. But when his gaze darted up to Hector’s own, he found only that Cheshire smile and a spark of playful curiosity. Hector knew what he was asking—he also knew he had Chris snared.

“I…” Memories of last night flitted through him, but he banished them just as easily—that had been a one-time fling. Tory made that clear. “No, that shouldn’t be a problem.”

It warmed Hector’s smile. “Good. You may start immediately, if you like. We open tomorrow at nine. Your base pay will be twenty five an hour.”

For the tenth time since entering the little store, Chris’ jaw almost dropped. “…Absolutely. Thank you, Mr. Raethgard.” He stood, extending his hand in gratitude.

He took it warmly. “Please, call me Hector.” He winked. “I look forward to working with a man of your talents.”

Chris couldn’t be sure, but Hector’s hand seemed to linger. A flush of self-conscious heat flushed his cheeks, and he cleared his throat, trying to maintain professional distance. He couldn’t help feel both uncomfortable and tantalized by the thought Hector may have less than professional motives. But the guarantee of a job overrode any misgivings.

“I’m looking forward to it, too.”

 

….

Chris emerged from the little shop with a spring in his step. The tepid grey clouds did little to dull his enthusiasm, and the assurance of being able to stay in the city gave him a sense of permanence as he slipped easily into the current of people. In the rush of the city, he finally felt at peace. The call of vendors echoed through the rumble of traffic and voices. As he passed a little steel cart that cast mouth-watering aromas across the walk, a loud voice boomed,

“Bagels! Best bagels in Manhattan!”

A cursory glance made Chris do a double-take—the crier was a youthful twenty-something with a military cap set rakishly down across his eyes. And standing at his side, dishing up bagels to gaggling business women, was Tory.

The split-second pause caused the person behind Chris to collide with his back. The elderly man growled a curse and brushed past, even as Chris reflexively checked for his wallet and moved to the edge of the crowd.

A moment of hesitation flitted through him—but his victory in the bookstore still ran fresh in his blood, and he approached with quiet confidence.

Tory stood behind the cart, smiling gently as he filled orders and took cash. He seemed at ease, comfortable in the chaos, though in the grey light of a New York sky, Chris caught a sadness about his eyes. Like his smile was only half-hearted. A worn Beatles t-shirt and blue jeans masked what Chris knew was a very attractive figure; but it couldn’t hide it completely.

Chris approached quietly and took his place in line. It was odd, seeing Tory as a street vendor—he’d never given them much thought, but to the best of his memory they were usually middle aged men with thick accents and greying hair. Why Tory, a young man who didn’t look to be past his mid twenties, would take up street vending was a mystery. But he and the other man at the cart looked to be having fun: jovial and familiar, like they were more than just coworkers.

With a sudden nervous thought, Chris realized they might be lovers. He watched closely as his turn approached; but for all their familiarity, they didn’t connect, didn’t touch. Even in public, trying to mask as straight, Chris knew there would be an intimate familiarity about them if they’d had sex before—or a deliberate overcompensation. And there wasn’t. Tory and his coworker moved together more like a machine than anything born of romance. A smile plucked at the corner of Chris’ mouth; it was almost a guilty pleasure, watching Tory unannounced. After all, the man had left without so much as a ‘goodbye’ this morning. Now Chris had found him on his own turf. And he wanted to see what his reaction would be.

At last Chris stood before the open steel slat of the cart. Tory tossed something back down into a bin, then looked up. Their eyes locked.

“Bagel, please,” Chris smiled playfully.

Surprise flashed across his face. But in a split second beat, Tory regained his momentum. A mischievous grin bloomed on his features, and he dug into his supply. “Sure thing. Cheese?”

“Plain.” Seeing the amiability on Tory’s face, he felt bolder. “So this is where you work?”

His smile hadn’t dropped. “It’s not the Ritz, but it pays the bills,” he explained. “Will that be all?”

Chris scrounged up cash from his pocket; his heart skipped a beat when Tory’s hand reached out and touched his own as the money changed hands. “Yeah.” He swallowed nervously, then decided to go all in. “You left without giving me your number this morning.”

Instead of surprise, a pained knowledge flitted across Tory’s features. He took the cash and avoided his gaze. Already the customers behind Chris were getting impatient—small talk was not appreciated. “I don’t have a phone,” he finally explained.

It was Chris’ turn for surprise, but he took it in stride. “Well… I’d like to see you again, if you’re interested.”

Now audible grumbling rose around them, but Chris stood firm: he wouldn’t leave without an answer, good or bad. It was a fact Tory knew and couldn’t fight. With a small, defeated smile, he decided, “Dinner at my place, tonight. Here’s the address.” He scribbled quickly on a napkin and handed it over, along with Chris’ bagel. “Eight o’clock.”

Chris glanced down at the napkin and the address scrawled across it. He glanced back up just in time to catch Tory’s wink.

“Now get out of my line,” he chided, shooing Chris off with a good-natured smile.

Usually being shooed away would have put Chris in a sour mood. But he just won another date with a man who turned his insides into knots, on top of a new job that paid even more than his last. Whatever Tory’s reticence had been, Chris would have another shot at changing his mind tonight. The world was looking up.

A warmth infused his body as he stepped away, bagel in hand, melting back into the flux of the city that never sleeps.

 


	5. Making It Count

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chris gets a second chance. Tory gets a third.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Song for this chapter is [Right Now](https://youtu.be/k3TLQeTPAbU) by Ryan Star. Also Tory's theme song. :)

Chris glanced down to the napkin in his hand for the hundredth time. There was no question—this was the place. Tory’s place. He had no idea what to expect.

The building rose five stories above him. Brown-black brick stacked one on top of the other in an endless spiral of fire escapes and warped, faded window panes. The building looked like it should have been condemned twenty years ago, but was left to rot instead. It wasn’t a bad neighborhood—south Brooklyn wasn’t a notoriously run-down or violent area. Still, Chris checked his back every so often during the trek, and had to navigate several backstreets before he found the one he searched for. It didn’t seem like Tory… But then, he’d only met the guy last night. He supposed on a street vendor’s salary, this might be a steal.

Chris trudged up the cracked stone steps to the door. An ancient-looking intercom system flanked the door to the right. He double checked the number scribbled on the napkin, and found the corresponding button. The mechanism inside clicked, and Chris let up. He wasn’t sure what it would sound like on the inside, but he doubted it was pretty.

A matter of moments passed before Tory’s static-garbled voice answered, “Yeah?”

“It’s Chris,” he tried to sound friendly. Intercom conversations always left him feeling awkward.

“Who?”

“ _Chris_ ,” he said louder, hoping it was the poor wiring.

A beat. Then, “Come on up!”

The heavy wooden door in front of him clicked, and Chris reached out to tug the handle. It swung open effortlessly.

....

The elevator creaked. It nearly gave Chris a heart attack when it jolted to a stop three floors up. With a distinctly outdated _cling_ , the doors parted and allowed him into a dingy hall—carpeted, but not by much. The walls were faded yellow; a hallway of doors stretched in a seemingly endless loop. In quick assessment, Chris knew by the ratio of doors to wall space the apartments had to be small. A sliver of self-conscious guilt tugged at his gut; he’d made such a stink last night about being unemployed, meanwhile Tory was selling bagels out of a cart and living in a place like this. _Way to go, suavo_ , he frowned. He found #324, marked by a faded brass placard on the outside of the door.

Inhale for courage, then a knock.

He’d barely taken a second breath before it swung open, and he stood face to face with the man from the bagel stand, the one who had worn the military cap earlier. He was tall and big, like a linebacker. The span of his waist was wider than Chris’ entire body, and the t-shirt, dirty jeans and boots gave him all the appearance of an off-duty construction worker. Keen, dark eyes surveyed him once over before the guy cracked a smile—“You Chris?”

“I… Yeah. That’s me,” he nodded.

In booming baritone, the man called over his shoulder, “Hey, L.T.! Your date’s here!”

 _LT_? Chris wondered. Still, he accommodated when the other man stepped away from the door and gestured him inside the small but brightly lit apartment.

“Bring him in!” Tory’s voice answered distantly. “I’ve got two hands on the stove!”

“Aright,” the man called back. “I’m Darrell, by the way,” he added, leading him down the entry hall. “Tory said you were coming. Gotta say, I’m glad he finally found himself a guy. He was getting downright depressing.”

“I… Thanks,” was all Chris could think to say. A hundred questions spun through his mind, and he filed them all away, determined to get answers before the night was out. “Do you live here too?”

Darrell smiled earnestly. “Three years. Tory and me got discharged around the same time, and had nothing better to do. Still don’t,” he joked. “Ain’t that right, L.T.?” They’d rounded the corner, and Darrell’s playful jibe carried to a small, open kitchen where Tory stood over the stove, hard at play making dinner with a dishrag tossed casually over one shoulder.

Tory glanced up, and a smile bloomed on seeing them. “Hey, Chris! I hope you like shrimp scampi… It was that or burritos.”

“Sure,” he answered. A warmth spread through Chris at the familiar sight of Tory’s smile. For a fleeting moment, he felt awe at Tory’s ability to enthrall him so easily. Chris had never been known for his romantic soul—he was lucky if he remembered his father’s birthday, much less thought about flowers or long-term relationships. But drawn into Tory’s orbit, he found himself considering it. If that wasn’t potential, he didn’t know what was.

Darrell pulled up a stool, and Chris took the hint. Beers appeared on the counter as he sat, and Darrell slid him one, then popped the top on his own. “Don’t get me wrong, L.T. I mean, I’m glad you got your dancing thing… But really, you bring guys home like there’s no tomorrow, then never see ’em again. What you need is a boyfriend to keep you out of trouble.”

Tory swung around, scooping noodles into three dishes. “You’re telling me to stay out of trouble? You’re the one picking up every soccer mom you can handle.”

Chris tried to hide an amused smirk.

Darrell took it with a laugh. “Just ’cause I’ve got game, you don’t gotta be jealous. I’m just lookin’ out for you.” He leaned toward Chris, as one departing a secret. “You don’t deserve this guy, Chris. I’ll tell you that right now. He’s a goddamn hero—saved my life twice over in Afghanistan, and kept our whole unit alive with a bullet in his shoulder. He deserves a freaking medal of honor and an invitation to the White House, is what he deserves…” Darrell turned a critical eye on him: “If you jack him up, you’ll have me to answer to. Got it?”

Surprised, Chris nodded. “You’ve got my word. No trouble.”

Tory, obviously embarrassed at being the object of discussion, slid a bowl of noodles and a fork down to Darrell at the end of the island. “Thanks. Now get your ass out of here. I have a date.”

With a crooked smile, Darrell grabbed his plate. “Whatever you say, L.T. I was just watching your back, is all.” He threw a wink at Chris, then made his way down the hallway to the right and disappeared into what Chris had to assume was a bedroom.

Once the wooden thunk of the door broke the air, Chris felt the familiar tension slip into the air—comfortable, quiet, but electric.

Tory turned to him with a smile. “Sorry if he surprised you,” he apologized. “We’ve roomed together for years. He promised he’d stay in the bedroom tonight, though.”

Chris’ brow arched. “The bedroom?”

Tory shrugged as he set bowls of steaming hot noodles and shrimp down before them. The aroma filled the small kitchen and made Chris’ mouth water. Producing two sets of silverware, Tory came around and sat on a stool next to him. “There’s only one bedroom, so I let him have it. I sleep on the couch, most nights.”

It surprised Chris. Definitely not what he was expecting.

Tory sensed his silence. They were sitting side by side, but he shifted, looking Chris in the eye. “This is why I wanted you here tonight…” Nervously, he sighed. “I’m not shiny, Chris. This is my life. I got back from the war, and Darrell needed some help. We got in on the bagel cart together, and this place. And we’ve been here for three years. It’s not that we can’t get something better—we probably could, maybe, if we tried. But I’d rather be living and working with a man I trust than shut away in some high rise surrounded by strangers.” He took a bite of pasta, as if to drive home his point.

Gently Chris ingested the information, what he’d seen of Tory, both last night in the club and today on the street. It was almost like two different men—one a charismatic prince, the other a beaten down veteran doing the only thing he knew how. Thoughtfully, he spun his beer. “…He said you saved his life,” he said.

Tory cocked his head.

“Darrell,” Chris qualified. “Earlier, he said you saved his life, in Afghanistan.”

He didn’t immediately answer, using another bite to delay. Finally, he nodded. “It was during a raid. We were ambushed. The first lieutenant got knocked down, and I was next in command. It was a mess.”

“But you saved him? Them?”

Self-conscious at being put on the spot, Tory only nodded.

And a mischievous smile crossed Chris’ lips. “Then Darrell’s right. You’re a goddamn hero.”

To his immense surprise, Tory’s cheeks actually colored.

Seeing the pink tint, Chris couldn’t stand it any longer—he leaned over and planted a kiss full on Tory’s mouth.

A surprised yelp escaped, but he caught it, boldly provoking Tory’s tongue to join his. After a moment of muffled breath, they were in tandem; he felt the rush through his body, like electricity. Tory’s hands found the fabric of his collar, then settled on the nape of his neck, pulling him closer. For a moment, Chris lost himself in the physical sensations, the warmth of breath and body.

Then Tory pulled back. “Chris…”

The quiet plea spurred him onward, reluctant to let the pleasure of the moment slip from his grasp. “No… Please, just listen,” he breathed. “I want you. I’ve never… I’m not crazy. I know you want something, too.”

Tory sighed, biting his lip. He wouldn’t meet Chris’ eyes.

And Chris couldn’t help but feel rejected. He stepped back, out of Tory’s arms. “Why am I not good enough?” he demanded. “You invite me over, cook me dinner… But somehow, I’m not worth kissing?”

He winced at the accusation. “I can't do this, Chris. I can't..." He struggled for words. "I can't do this. I know it’s hard to understand, but…”

“But what?” Chris frowned. “Apparently you bring guys home all the time. We had _sex_ last night. What’s wrong with me now? Why are you doing all of this?”

Tory sighed and pushed his dinner away in a defeated gesture. His expression remained unreadable.

And Chris couldn’t stand to stay. Whatever was going on with Tory, the man wasn't about to explain. And to hell if Chris was going to make him.

He lifted his jacket from the back of the chair. “I’m sorry, Tory. I don’t know what the problem is, but it’s not mine.”

And then Chris turned, stepping away for the door. He didn’t see the depths of sorrow flash through Tory’s eyes, didn’t see him wrestle with an unspoken darkness.

Tory caught him just as he reached the door. A hand grabbed his shoulder and spun him into the wall. And then Tory was on him. Mouths collided, followed by bodies. Released from inhibition, Tory attacked with zeal; the kiss was hard, and hot, and breathless. Everything Chris hadn't realized he'd been craving, dying for since seeing Tory on the street that day. In seconds they were back to where they were last night, pulled together in beautiful, undeniable symmetry.

Tory's hands found the fabric of Chris’ shirt hem amd slid beneath it. Chris gasped, overwhelmed by the sudden affection. In moments he melded to the cadence Tory set, attacking back with equal fire. The sensation of Tory’s hard, muscled body beneath his hand ignited visceral heat; he kissed deeper, swirling his tongue through the cavern of Tory’s mouth and biting at his lip. Tory’s large hands across his ass brought him closer, and they stayed, rocking him upward in an instinctive rut. 

Everything in Chris screamed to take this at face value, ride this current to wherever it would take him. 

But there was still a plexus of unanswered questions in his mind. He let the kiss sizzle, then smolder and end. Tory’s hands were still on him—and, Chris realized, his own hands found a home in Tory’s tousled hair. They remained like that for a minute, breathing the tension.

“What do you want?” Chris asked, breathless.

Tory leaned in, planting a kiss on his neck. His voice was so quiet, Chris strained to hear. “You.” 

It wasn’t enough. “For how long?”

Silence, even as Tory’s chest rose and fell against his own.

“What do you _want_ from me?” he repeated.

In answering stubbornness, Tory’s grip tightened. “Tonight. And tomorrow night. And the night after…” Another kiss on heated skin. “Until we can’t anymore. Until it’s over.”

“Until you walk out again,” Chris surmised painfully.

Then it was there—that unspoken sorrow Chris had seen on the streets today. This close, he caught the slight grimace of guilt on Tory’s face, nearly imperceptible.

“That’s what you’re trying to protect me from, isn’t it,” he guessed. “You left on purpose. You’re going to walk away. You already know it.”

For the first time in what seemed an eternity, Tory looked him in the eye. The heat between their bodies suddenly felt very real, and intense. “If that’s what scares you, Chris, I promise: I won’t be the one to leave. I’ll stay until you can’t stand me anymore, until you find something better or want something worse. I won’t be the one to walk away.”

Confused at the offer, Chris paused. Tory’s touch affected him like a magnetic field, pulling him in closer and more surely until he felt he could never escape. A man in limbo, he couldn’t be sure which way was up.

But he was determined to take the plunge. He sealed the offer with a kiss, lingering and hungry.

A grin spread on Tory’s face.

And Chris couldn’t resist. “God… You’re dangerous.”

....

The words brought a quirk of amusement—Tory had heard those words before, by others. But never with acceptance. He leaned in, pressing another kiss to Chris’ lips. They were soft, yielding, but not fragile. He’d had women, once, a long time ago. But the taste and solidarity of a man’s body in his arms lit him with a kind of need he never experienced elsewhere. Men were guarded, like him. Lone sailors on an endless sea. They took pleasure for pleasure’s sake, and he could walk away satisfied.

In his heart, he knew Chris was different. This wasn’t a quick get-off, a one-time savor. It had never been more bittersweet, locked in lust with a man he desperately wanted, but wouldn’t have for good.

He pushed the sorrow of tomorrow down, letting the warmth of the moment exile any fear. Tonight, they were here. And he intended to enjoy it.

With a final lick on the soft skin of Chris’ neck, he offered, “Come on. Let’s eat.” Nuzzling his ear, “And then it’s my turn to make you scream.”

A moan of appreciation vibrated through Chris’ throat; Tory pulled away playfully, locking hands with him and pulling him back to the counter and steaming bowls of pasta.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...So, I'm hoping this came out alright. I spent some extra time going over their relationship dynamic in this chapter because it's such a definitive moment, and Chris walks a fine line between sticking up for himself and being an asshole. It's not about the sex, for Chris, it's about the mixed messages and needing to be 100% clear on what their relationship is. I hope the dynamic came across well. Please let me know if not.
> 
> Also, take Tory's introspection about men and women with a grain of salt. He's an unreliable narrator at the best of times, and he often tells himself things that aren't true to keep from looking at things too closely. (Hopefully that's something that's already coming out, and continues to as the story goes on. But wanted to reiterate just in case.)
> 
> Anyway... Let me know what you thought! Like I said, this a pivotal scene for defining their relationship. Would love to hear how it struck you. :)


	6. Common Ground

When Chris walked into the little bookshop the next morning, the familiar sight of Hector’s nephew at the register met him. He was in black today—somehow, the color softened him, though the dramatic effect of the hair and eyeliner still broadcasted a sullen vibe. That was alright by Chris; sullen meant quiet, and he could handle quiet. It was the boisterous ones like Darrell that made Chris uncomfortable. Thankfully such people rarely lingered long in a bookstore.

He approached the counter with confidence; once again, the boy did not glance up.

After a moment of silence, Chris cleared his throat. “Hey,” he tried.

Nothing.

“…I’m here for training,” he added.

“Chris!” The voice came from behind the back row of shelves, near the fireplace. Turning, Chris found Hector emerging through the rows of worn leather bindings, a genuine smile lighting his face. “You’re here just in time! I was wrapping up inventory for the week. Care to join me in my office for training?”

It was said with such nonchalance, as though Hector were a friend inviting him for drinks instead of his boss giving him his first assignment.

“Sure,” he answered. He shrugged his bag. “Where should I put this?”

“Just behind the counter,” Hector said with a dismissive wave.

Chris turned. Hector’s nephew stood directly blocking the designated area. Chris cleared his throat.

Without looking up, the boy stepped aside.

As Chris slid past to set his bag in a nook under the heavy oak counter, he noted the magazine spread before the boy was different today—still science, but the diagrams looked to be basic combustion. Fleetingly, Chris hoped he wasn’t an arsonist in training. He was pretty sure a bookstore like this would go up in flames without too much help.

As if sensing his thoughts, the boy glanced up.

Chris’ heart skipped a beat. Cold brown eyes trapped him like a fly caught in amber. No accusation in them, no demand. Just a merciless appraisal. For the first time in years, Chris felt intimidated. By a thirteen year old boy.

“Sorry,” Chris mumbled. He dropped his bag and retreated back into the open area, trying to shake off the unease.

Hector seemed not to notice. His smile quirked as ever, something between a Cheshire cat and medieval lord welcoming a guest. “Shall we?”

....

Hector’s office was just as he remembered it: dark, cozy and lined wall to wall with books. As they entered Hector set the leather-bound volume he’d been carrying on a side-table and stepped around to sit in the large, overstuffed office chair behind the desk. Chris took a seat opposite.

“I’m glad you decided to come back,” Hector began, sounding genuinely pleased.

Chris couldn’t help the twinge of sarcasm—“Do people not usually?”

Luckily, Hector appreciated it. “Only those who were not meant to be here in the first place,” he said evenly. “I’ve had customers who were deterred by Llewellyn’s… _difficult_ nature.”

 _Llewellyn._ The name was odd, but somehow, it suited the young man. Chris shrugged. “He’s a quiet kid. But I understand that. I was pretty difficult myself,” he smiled.

Hector nodded, pleased with this assessment. “He is an exceptionally talented person, with more raw intelligence than many can claim. His lack of patience for the stupid and mundane is understandable.”

He stifled a laugh. “I’ve never heard it put like that.”

“It’s precisely how he feels.” Hector’s brow raised in skepticism. “You don’t feel the same way?”

“I…” Chris paused, realizing what he was implying. “I mean, I was a bright kid in school. I loved books. But…”

“But Llewellyn seems different,” he surmised. “More distant.”

Uncomfortable, Chris nodded.

Hector reclined in his chair. “One thing you must understand working here, Chris—we are scholars. Myself, you and Llewellyn. We are all here to pursue information, and through that information, knowledge. What we choose to do with that knowledge…” he grinned with wicked edge, “…is entirely up to us. But we are all in pursuit of it.”

The hum and rumble of the city underscored his words, as if the four walls surrounding them truly were a shield against the chaos beyond. An intimate air descended between them; the gentle shadows on Hector’s face, the curve of his lips and glint in his eye, impressed Chris with a warm familiarity… He wanted to be liked by this man. His esteem for Hector rose in those few moments—and he understood. This was more than a job. This was a sanctuary. And Hector offered it as a haven for Chris, if he would appreciate it.

He did. “Thank you, Mr. Raethgard.”

Another wicked smile. “I told you, please, call me Hector.”

Chris felt a flush come to his cheeks—he wasn’t imagining it. There was definitely interest in his employer’s eyes. After everything that had happened with Tory the night before, Chris’ mind warred between uncomfortable and intrigued.

“Llewellyn can instruct you how to operate the register. No need to punch in and out—I’ll know when you get here and when you leave. I spend most of my time here in my office, so if you have any questions, feel free to knock.” He held out his hand.

Chris took it, and Hector helped him to his feet.

“Welcome to the family, Chris.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short chapter here, but the next will be a long one. :) Bit of a jump as things get serious, and our heroes start turning their course toward Amaranth.
> 
> Also, a quick [deleted scene](https://gwyxion.tumblr.com/post/156546570879/rook-deleted-scene-1) via Tumblr. Chris and Tory's third date that didn't quite make the cut.


	7. On the Edge

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning for violent war-based flashbacks.

Winter crept in with the chill and certainty of the sea’s betrayal. Like the Trojans, New York City’s autumn months sat on the edge of an undeniable fact—and like Troy, the city ignored the death at its gates. Through the frosted window pane, Hector surveyed the soot-infused air; people scrambled down the sidewalks intent on getting to their destination, without ever glancing up to the sky. Hector knew it was the fatal misstep: once they forgot their own power, humanity forgot everything else, and apathy crept into what had been an industrious and determined people.

A sigh escaped his chest… There was the challenge.

But one person had not disappointed him—Chris. For the past six months, the man had performed his duties in the shop with unwavering dedication and loyalty. He stayed late when asked and ran errands without a breath of discontent. He took orders without question, but not without thought or conscience. He was the sharpened edge dangerous men were made of, but his focused energy made him an asset worth protecting. The final piece still remained unknown: whether he could count on Chris to follow, when the time came. It was an end not yet tied, and like the city itself, Hector stood on the edge of the dark, waiting for the time to rise.

 

....

“Oh, come on… You’re joking!”

Catherine’s laughter bounced across the table, provoking a roguish smile from Tory. “I swear to God, that’s what the commander said. I nearly took him up on it,” he added. His hand tightened gently in a squeeze on Chris’ leg. “All of us were sure he just needed a good lay anyway. That man had a baton so far up his ass, he whistled Yankee Doodle in his sleep.”

Chris felt the smile spread on his own face, hidden by the club’s darkness and the hum of people. It had been a wild night—Bobby called them all out to celebrate his latest victory, and on impulse, Chris invited Tory to join them. As much as he loved his friends, it was nice to have his boyfriend’s company to mellow the crazed grind of the crowded club. Tory had even dragged him out on the dance floor for a while, before returning for more drinks at the table. Catherine dug into him then, provoking him about his past in the military—Tory took it in stride, turning the conversation from politics to joking prods and tales of close calls. Some of the stories even Chris hadn’t heard; he marveled at just how many there were. And in each one, though he tried to diminish it, Chris heard the truth: Tory had been in the thick of battle for a very long time, before his discharge.

“But seriously,” Bobby cut in, “You were deployed to all those places? How old are you anyway?”

Tory flashed a mysterious grin. “Old enough to know better,” he teased. “I’m feeling like another dance,” he continued, slipping an arm around his boyfriend’s waist. “How about it, babe?”

Chris sighed, and suppressed a laugh. “We just got back… Can’t I finish my drink?”

Tory nuzzled his ear. “I’ll make it worth your while…”

Embarrassed at the public display, he shook his head. “You used that one last night on Star Trek reruns.”

Tory offered a fake pout. “And it won’t work again?”

“Nope.” He took another sip of his bourbon. “Not for another twenty minutes.”

Playfully, Tory’s gaze slid across the table. “How about you, Bobby? Would you do me the honor while my wet blanket boyfriend finishes his drink?”

Bobby looked to Chris with surprised awkwardness, but Chris just laughed, conceding, “Go on. Go dance your asses off.”

Tory leaned in, pressing his lips in a kiss while Bobby slid out of the booth. Then Tory joined him, taking him by the hand and disappearing into the crowd.

Chris watched them go with amusement.

His reverie was not lost on Catherine; she scooted closer, closing the gap left by the others. “Alright hon,” she said easily. “Spill the beans.”

Confused, he spun his drink before taking another sip. “What?”

“I know that look—you just let your boyfriend go dance with another guy. You’re either madly in love or about to break up with him.”

It brought a laugh. “I’m not gonna break up with him, Cathy. He’s…. He’s incredible. He’s everything I never knew I wanted.”

She still caught the reserve in his voice. “Then why don’t you go dance with him? If a man looked at me like that, I wouldn’t even bother going out. I’d lock him in my room and never leave!”

A darkness descended on him, and he tried to wash it away with liquor. “Trust me, I’ve thought about it.” Quietly he confessed, “I’ve thought about asking him to move in. He spends most nights over at my place anyway. But…”

“But what, hon? There’s got to be something, for you to look that sour.”

With effort, he confessed, “He’s not… He doesn’t want it. Every time I try to talk about things, the future… He clams up. He dodges it and tries to distract me. He’ll do these romantic things, and in bed…” He blushed. “Trust me, there’s no problem there. But it still feels like a one night stand, just dragged out, over and over again.” He swallowed uncomfortably. “The way he looks at me sometimes, Cathy… It’s like he’s the last man on Earth. Like tomorrow's never coming." 

For once, Catherine had no answer.

And Chris shook his head. “He has to be the one to make a move, for the future. I’m tired of trying and being told no… So yeah,” he concluded. “I’m in love with him. I’ve never been happier in my life. But if he doesn’t make a move soon… I’ll have to accept he never will.”

A gentle hand rested on his shoulder; Chris ignored it, staunchly downing his glass. It was his last, for the night. He had work tomorrow, and he doubted Hector would be sympathetic to a hangover.

 

....

_Five shots off, duck to reload. Five shots again, pinning the bastards in return. Where was Dante?_

_“Captain!”_

_The cry came from his right. He turned in time to see Levi take a shot to the head. The man crumpled and Tory shouted, but it wouldn’t do any good and he had to take down these hostiles before anyone else died. “Dante!” he called over the radio. “Where the hell—”_

_He ducked, and when he looked up again..._

_There was silence._

_With care he rose. The world was quiet, shattered remnants of ruins strew across the trench-scarred no-man’s-land, riddled with corpses of the dead. The battle was done. Disoriented, rifle in hand, he trudged one forced footstep in front of the other. His gas mask hung useless at his side—they were dead, all of them, already gone._

_“Viator!”_

_A scream pierced the din. His feet caught and he ran, fumbling through the corpses piled around a machine gun mounted behind sandbags. He’d heard her—heard—_

_“Mera!”_

_The woman sat bent, armor mangled and back against a sandbag pierced with bullets. The armor was wrong—medieval plate armor. He knew she looked like a Valkyrie in it, but he didn’t know how. A piece of shrapnel tore through her chest. She clung to the hand of the corpse at her side—Dante, that was Dante—already dead._

_Tory fell to his knees beside her. The mortars whistled and boomed, but he couldn’t hear them. Only her shallow breath, her blood-soaked gasp. He grasped her hand, trying to keep the tremble from his voice. “Mera… Mera, I’m here. I’m—”_

_“Tor, remember us!” she choked. The rattle in her throat was wet, dangerous. Any second would be her last. “Promise_ … _Promise you will remember!”_

_He tried to speak, but the words caught in his throat and he was mute—he couldn’t answer._

_The earth trembled. Incoming mortars rent the landscape to his left and right. The stones cried out around him, echoing her cries of pain as she convulsed. Thunder and gunfire wheeled in a carousel around him as far beyond, a star broke the horizon_ — 

....

That night, Chris woke to an empty bed.

In the dark, he struggled for moments to understand what had woken him. The bedside clock glowed a soft green—4:02 AM. Too early for the alarm, and too late for noise from the neighbors. He blinked, and cast his gaze out further to the shadows of the apartment. Moonlight invaded through the cracked blinds of the upper windows. The light splashed in broken lines over the couch and coffee table, over the shoulders of a man who sat there.

Tory. The bed was empty.

He sat on the edge of the couch, shirtless, head in hands. Still in the flannel pajama bottoms he'd worn to bed. His breath was steady, his shoulders rising and falling in even rhythm. 

“Babe?”

Startled, Tory glanced up. Chris caught a split-second expression on his face—grief, and exhaustion—before his features softened to an apologetic smile. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to wake you.”

Bleary-eyed, Chris wondered, “Is everything okay?”

A weary smile as Tory rose. He approached the bed easily, and slid back under the covers. “Everything’s fine,” his warm voice rumbled. “Go back to sleep.”

Arms engulfed Chris in a warm hold, and he returned the embrace, moving closer till his head laid on Tory’s chest. He draped an arm across Tory’s stomach, not understanding the sudden need to hold him.

Despite the reassurance, he could feel Tory’s wakefulness in the dark. How he could be so close, so present, and yet miles away frustrated Chris. It would be so easy to follow Tory's lead, let it all just fall away like it never happened. 

But Chris was tired. This couldn't keep happening.

“It was a dream, wasn't it.” 

Tory didn't answer.

“I know you have them," he breathed. It was true—that first morning Tory startled awake, Chris had thought he was just disoriented, waking in an unfamiliar place. But then it happened again, in his own apartment, and again every few weeks. This wasn’t the first time he’d woken to find Tory staring into the dark. “You wake up, and you don’t know where you are.”

Tory’s hand ran gently over his bicep. At first, Chris didn’t think he would answer. Then, “You’re too smart for your own good, you know that?”

Chris smiled half-heartedly. He massaged a circle into Tory’s skin. “It's a curse.”

Tory chuckled, and the rumble warmed Chris’ chest.

But he still hadn't given an answer.

“I mean it,” Chris pressed. “Where do you go?”

After a moment, Tory heaved a sigh. His fingers traced figure-eights on Chris’ skin. “Sometimes it's Afghanistan,” he murmured.

“The fighting?” Chris guessed.

“Yeah.”

Chris didn’t know how to respond to that. It was a piece of Tory’s life he’d never be able to understand. Not because he didn’t want to, or they hadn't talked about it. But because he couldn’t—he wasn’t a soldier, and never had been. He'd never watched a friend die. Tory had come out better than most; Chris knew that. But it didn’t mean he was unscathed.

“...Where else?” Chris managed.

“Hmm?”

"You said, sometimes." Chris’ gaze fixed on Tory’s navel, the way the sheet rumpled and curved just above his hip. His physical presence. “Where else?” he wondered.  _And why does it hurt so much?_

Even through the dark, Chris could hear the weight in Tory’s voice. “Just places. People…” His chest rose and fell against Chris’ own.  “Sometimes... I’m home.”

“Home?”

“Back where I grew up,” he explained. “My mom’s there, sometimes. And my brothers.” A small huff, edged with laughter. “Usually tackling each other over something.”

Chris wove his fingers through Tory’s own across his chest. "You've never mentioned your family."

“I don't talk about them much,” he admitted. A small huff. “I had this dog, though. I found her as a puppy, and brought her home. My mom was furious. But Art—” He cut off, and qualified, “...My older brother, he convinced her to let me keep it. That damned dog tore up _everything_.”

Chris smiled gently.

Laughter tinged his voice. “She finally got so big, I had to give her up. Wouldn’t even fit on the couch.”

Somehow, Chris could imagine it. Leave it to Tory to bring home a monstrosity like that, and think of keeping it. But Tory was deflecting again. “Do you ever go back?” he asked. "Y'know, visit?"

Tory hesitated. When the words came, they were thick, as if speaking them were an effort. “Not much to go back to. The two oldest, they were… soldiers, like me.” Even in the quiet, Chris could hear his boyfriend's deliberate lack of inflection. “Killed in action, the same year I enlisted. My younger brother took off—wanted to be a mercenary. Glorified security guard, really. I... I haven't heard from him since.” He rubbed his thumb pensively over Chris’ own. Another attempt at humor: “Getting shot at kind of runs in the family.”

Chris let the joke rest in silence. Tory's quiet breath filled the dark. Finally, “...What about your mom?”

Silence.

Chris inhaled in the stillness. He’d heard the weight of years in Tory’s voice, the grief and loss. It was more he’d gotten from Tory than all the months before combined—and he couldn’t even bring himself to say their names.

“Don't hide from me,” Chris murmured at last. “Whatever this is... Whatever you're holding back, just... don't, okay?"

Tory's muscles tensed. "Chris—"

"I want you," he demanded. To hell if Tory was going to deflect this time. "Every part of you, even the places you think are too dark, or painful, or... damaged. Whatever it is you're trying to keep from me...” He turned his head slightly, looking Tory in the eye. The guilt he saw almost knocked the air from his lungs. But he wouldn’t back down. “You don't get to decide what I can't handle. What you have to protect me from."

The wince in Tory's expression was visible.

And it just made Chris all the more certain he was right. "I love you," he said. "I want you. The tragedies, the shitty days, the good ones... I want them all.”

Tory’s chest rose in a breath, like he was about to speak. But the words didn’t come.

Then he let the exhale go in a sigh, and pressed a kiss to Chris’ temple. “I know, babe. I'm sorry.” He reached down to pull the covers up, wrapping Chris in warmth. Another kiss, chaste and affectionate. “C'mon. You’ll be miserable tomorrow if you don’t get some sleep.”

 

....

It was more difficult than usual for Chris to drag himself out of bed that morning. He knew it was Tory’s day off, and he would have given up a couple hours’ pay to linger in bed, letting their usual cuddle spark something more heated. Finish their conversation from last night. But the last thing he needed was to call in late and give his employer a reason to doubt him. He moved quietly, dressing and grabbing a muffin on the way out. Tory had his own key, and Chris never had second thoughts about letting him stay once he’d gone. He’d often find Tory still there after his shift, relaxing on the couch watching television with dinner already cooking. It was bittersweet, and as the door clicked shut behind him, Chris shrugged off the weight of his love life for the chill, damp air of the winter morning.

....

It was quiet at the shop, as usual. He opened the register and slipped down the hallway to say good morning to Hector. The man was up already, perusing several open books with a mug of tea in hand. It astounded Chris, really—how late Hector worked, and how early he was back at it. Hector smiled in pleasure when he saw Chris, and acknowledged his arrival. Then Chris returned to the front and settled into another day of reading.

The selection of books at _Masque & Blade_ was… eclectic. Everything from Bronze Age history to medieval lays to modern astronomy textbooks. It took Chris a while to familiarize himself with the shelving system—at first he thought the books were organized by copyright date, or perhaps by historical date. But the more he poked around, the more it bewildered him. Finally he asked Llewellyn: the boy stated simply, “They are stacked by purpose. Do _not_ muddle them.”

Chris took it in stride and began poking around with renewed curiosity. He took up reading an entire shelf at a time, searching for the purpose in each book. For some, the connection was easy; they revolved around cosmological events, linked with humanity’s explanation of them. For others, the connection was deeper. And one shelf in particular he could not understand, though he’d read each book over twice. A mix of modern sci-fi, Byzantine texts and Scandinavian mythology, it was a strange collection that Chris couldn’t fathom. Even more curious, a small wooden carving stood as guardian, buried between the tomes as a single bookend—a primeval lioness. It was altogether strange, and fantastic.

Feeling the need for a challenge, he returned to the misfit shelf today, selecting the _Poetic Edda_ from the middle of the collection. He was familiar with it, from his own studies, but the oddness of this place made him wonder if there was something particular about this translation Hector had selected.

He took the tome back to the register, lifting the worn leather cover with reverence. It was an old edition, published at the end of the nineteenth century. The thick, rough pages were yellowed with time, and at the front sat a mimeograph of _Skírnismál_ , the tale of Freyr’s love for a giantess. Tales of that sort always struck him with a kind of discord. These beings were gods, after all, inhuman and grand. The thought that they would be taken with a mortal being, frail by comparison, reeked of human desperation to touch the divine. If Freyr were real, and Zeus and all his equivalents, they would be so far beyond their comprehension, it would be unfathomable. Still, he gently turned to the chapter and took up reading. The hours slipped by, lost in the chants of ancient times.

 _The horse will I give thee that goes through the dark,_  
_And magic flickering flames,_  
_And the sword as well that will fight of itself_  
_If a worthy hero wields it._  
_Dark it is without, and I deem it time_  
_To fare through the wild fells,_  
_We shall both come back, or us both together_  
_Will fall to the giant’s fist._

 

....

Seven o’clock neared that evening, when the employee door flew open. Jolted by the sudden noise, Chris straightened from his slump at the register. He expected to see Llewellyn—the boy came and went as he pleased, usually late in the afternoon. He was never sure whether it was to a library or friend’s house or what. When questioned, Llewellyn merely glared at him. He’d given up guessing.

 But it wasn’t Llewellyn that stepped through the door. It was Hector, wearing a knowing smile.

“Ready to call it a day?”

Chris shrugged off the weariness that had settled in his muscles. “That time already?” he joked.

Hector approached, glancing down at the book spread before him with a curious smile. “A little light reading?” he teased.

Chris rubbed his eyes. “Yeah… Nordic myths.”

“Grim and dark,” Hector agreed. “There’s something about living in a land covered in snow most of the year that makes a people… hard.”

He understood. “They’re interesting, really… The Scandinavians put a lot more faith in their own strength than other cultures. Most Greek stories are warnings not to make the gods angry. These…” He surveyed the manuscript with pensive admiration. “They’re more about strength and hospitality, than anything. And common sense,” he added.

Hector’s smile warmed him. “They are a remarkable people, from remarkable times.”

Chris couldn’t quite let it rest. “Yeah… But what I don’t get is what these stories are doing on a shelf with the Byzantine Empire and 20th century Russian literature. I mean… What’s the connection?”

Hector’s grin widened in playful humor. “Can you think of nothing that connects them?”

He paused, turning over the collection mentally. “The human condition? Survival?” he wondered.

As if given a gift, Hector’s expression flashed in muted excitement. “Precisely. It is what mortals can accomplish, once they accept their own power. The books are on a single shelf because they represent the strength in humanity, whether it is to survive, thrive or even become one of the very gods they worship.” He leaned over, brushing Chris’ hand as he did so. “Here,” he indicated a stanza of lines, “the maiden is threatened over and over again by Freyr’s emissary, and she does not relent, not even to the gods. And for it, Freyr loves her the more.”

Hector’s closeness suddenly became very real to Chris, the warmth of his body and the solidity of his presence. He had not moved or retreated. Hector’s eyes darted to Chris’ own, a casual understanding in their depths.

“That is why these books are grouped together, Chris,” he concluded. “For the beauty of them.”

As if waking from a long sleep, Chris blinked—he stood close, too close, to a man who was not his boyfriend. He tore his eyes away and nodded, retrieving his bag from the shelf under the register. He shrugged off the intimacy of the prior moment. It was his imagination. Hector was just enthusiastic about his work, that was all.

“Any plans tonight?”

The casual words pierced his thoughts; Chris glanced up to see Hector folding the book closed, shrugging off the moment in his own way. Again the easy-going employer, he looked to Chris with careless invitation.

Chris hesitated, then shook his head as he slung the bag over his shoulder. “I remember being advised against a social life when I took this job.”

Hector took it in stride. “Care for a drink? I’m wrapping up for the night…”

A moment of pause as warring thoughts roiled through his heart.  Hector’s invitation was nonchalant, without undertone. Tory may or may not be still at the apartment, but he’d made a habit of not holding dinner, in case Chris was home late. And after the conversation last night... Chris wasn't all that certain he was ready to face him. “Sure," he decided. "What’re you having?”

A glint of triumph sealed Hector’s smile. “Glenmorangie.”

“Straight?”

“The only way to drink it.”

Chris knew he liked Hector for a reason.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Now is a good time to mention - the song for Rook is [Dance with the Devil](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jDyZj4msaoE) by Breaking Benjamin. Things are going to start getting progressively darker, but also more adventure-filled, from here on out. :)
> 
> Edit: So, I wrestled for a long time whether or not to come back and edit this chapter. For those who never saw the original, the conversation between Chris and Tory about his dreams was a lot gentler Chris' part. I decided to make it harsher after realizing it was a little too far out of character for Chris. The thing that makes their relationship work, what makes Chris such a good fit for Tory, is that he calls Tory on his bullshit. Tory's experienced a lot of trauma in his life and has some very valid internal struggles going on, but he also has a brooding nature that he masks with charisma and avoidant behavior. He keeps everyone at arm's length while using his charm and jovial nature like a slight of hand to prevent people from seeing what's really going on beneath the surface.
> 
> Chris' superpower is his incisiveness. He sees through the act. His direct and sometimes blunt approach cuts through Tory's barriers and holds him accountable, especially when things get tough. His approach in this scene may not have been the best (he's fallible, and nearing the end of his rope), but I feel a lot more confident in this version and how it sets the stage for the development of their relationship in coming chapters. 
> 
> So, apologies for the edit. It's not a habit, beyond typos and formatting errors, but this scene bugged me long enough I knew I had to come back and fix it. Hopefully the new scene is stronger and better reflects the dynamic of their relationship, and where things are at this point. :)


	8. Fairy Tale

Hector’s den was unaffected by the change in daylight—no windows meant no natural light, and the small lamp sitting on the corner of Hector’s desk provided the only illumination: a dim yellow-gold glow that silhouetted Hector’s black clad form. Not for the first time, Chris felt his eyes drawn downward, to the crook of Hector’s back and the long, graceful legs. Hector stood taller than him, but moved with the composure and grace of a man half his weight. There was something seductive about it that Chris couldn’t name. And in spite of everything brewing with Tory, it would be a lie to say he hadn’t thought about what it would be like to hear his boss, just once, lose control.

But Hector had given him no sign of wanting anything more, besides the occasional glint of interest or seductive undertone. He had been a perfect gentleman, treating Chris with the jovial familiarity of long-time friend. For all of Llewellyn’s quirks, Hector was laid back, easy-going. Chris was grateful he had stumbled on the little shop that day. He’d come to find a home, here among the scholarly misfits of _Masque & Blade Books_.

The door swung shut behind them, and Hector took up residence in the overstuffed office chair, shuffling papers and century old tomes out of their way. In a passing glance, Chris identified two books on chaos theory, one on medieval chivalry, a discourse on the rise of the occult in modern Europe, and a copy of _Common Sense_ , the early American philosopher’s pamphlet. He shook his head in amusement. “You may be the most widely read person I’ve ever met… And that’s saying something.” He relaxed back into the leather seat. “I’ve met a lot of book worms in my life.”

Hector reached into the confines of his desk to produce two tumblers and a three-pint bottle of scotch. “I like information. Isn’t there a saying, knowledge is power?” he said roguishly, pouring the amber liquor equally into the two glasses.

Chris smiled in appreciation. “Is that your quest, then?” he asked. “Why you have this bookstore—for power?”

It brought a strange, yet pleased pique to Hector’s sharp features. “I’ll hardly win my way to presidency holed up in a bookstore in Manhattan,” he countered.

“That’s not what I meant…” He took a sip of the scotch, and it burned a path down his throat. Hector wasn’t kidding around—that was hundred-fifty proof, at least. “You don’t seem like the politician type, anyway. I meant the books. There are too many of them, and you don’t sell enough, to make it a profitable business for an entrepreneur. The only reason you’d keep going here is because it gives you something else.”

“A clever deduction,” Hector grinned; he downed his scotch in one swallow, then set the tumbler on his desk. It barely seemed to affect him. “What am I staying for, then? If not the money?”

Intimidated, Chris skirted the answer. “When I interviewed, you said you opened to help Llewellyn with his studies.”

“Yes,” he agreed. “And…”

“And he doesn’t actually go to school, that I’ve seen. A kid his age would be hounded by truancy officers if he didn’t get _some_ kind of education, so…”

A knowing edge came to Hector’s voice. “He takes care of his own education.”

“So I assumed,” Chris qualified. “But if anything, that removes you from the necessity of staying in one place, instead of reinforcing it.”

“And yet you question why I am here.”

“A man who reads Nietzsche and the Q'uran in the same day is a man with ambition— _you_ are a man with ambition,” Chris stated. He knew the scotch was starting to loosen his tongue, but it felt good. He’d been trying to unwind Hector for months. Now it seemed he had his opportunity.

Hector refilled their glasses. “I am driven. There is a difference between ambition and drive.”

“But what is it toward?” he wondered. “Getting Llewellyn through school? Magically keeping a bookstore no one knows exists open in the middle of a recession?”

Hector did not immediately answer. He swallowed another shot—it startled Chris. Hector seemed as in control as ever. Only a darkness, an edge, entered his speech. With quiet certainty, he said, “I am going to tell you a story.”

Chris glanced around at the shelves of books. “This is the perfect place to do it,” he laughed.

His mirth did not warm Hector’s eyes. “It begins with, _Once upon a time_. There was a fair queen, beautiful and loved by all her people. Tragedy was the origin of her reign, but her people forgot that—all they knew was she was beautiful, and just, and protected them in their time of need.”

“Sounds like a set up for disaster,” Chris muttered.

Hector did not respond, continuing with his tale. “And then, there was a knight. He rose in her army with cunning and prowess until he caught this fair queen’s attention. He became her favorite—inside her chamber, and out.”

“Wait, what?” Chris interjected. “In her chamber? You mean as a lover?”

Hector shook his head in dismissal. “Just listen to the story.”

With a sigh, Chris nodded.

“His skill as a knight impressed her, and he was taken deeper and deeper into her confidence. He did not desire to become king—he desired only to be at her side.”

“The stuff true romance is made of,” Chris snorted.

“Just the same,” Hector nodded, pouring him another glass. “So how do you think this story ends?”

He eyed the drink skeptically, as if he were suddenly being offered a drug. “What do you mean?”

“You’re the one with a degree in… _fairy_ tales,” he emphasized the word with a smirk. “If this were one of your stories, how would it end?”

Chris leaned back, taking time to consider the question. “It’d depend on the culture, I suppose. In Celtic mythology, the queen would translate into some sort of Goddess figure, but that wouldn’t necessarily mean the knight was in the clear. If he betrayed her, he would be punished somehow…”

“And if the queen were evil—an enchantress who used her power to snare the entire kingdom to her will?”

His eyes widened. “That would put it in the realm of medieval romance. The knight would be destined to conquer her and so ‘cleanse the earth’ of her evil.” He said the last words with cynical disdain—he’d read too many tales of morality to really buy it.

“That’s if you assume the knight was meant to symbolize the force of good,” Hector challenged. “Can you assume so?”

Chris suddenly felt like there was more to this than Hector was telling him. “Are you the knight? Is this some kind of metaphor for why you’re hiding out in Manhattan?”

Hector bit his lip, trying to hide his smile. “You are clever. I knew I liked you.” The bottle of scotch was halfway gone. “Does a broken heart sufficiently explain my situation?”

Now utterly lost, Chris shook his head. “Everyone gets a broken heart at some point. Hell, I’ve had one. We fall desperately in love, and then it’s shattered. But not everyone becomes a scholar. Not everyone dedicates themselves to… a cause, whatever it is. People just don’t work that way.”

“You’re right. _People_ don’t. But an individual…” Hector paused just long enough to swallow another shot. “ _Individuals_ do, when their lives turn inside out.”

The entire conversation was getting too technical for Chris’ very clouded mind. He sensed Hector was trying to tell him something important—to give him a clue. He tried a wild stab in the dark. “So this woman, this bitch, betrayed you, and now you get drunk with men instead.” Probably fueled by his own suppressed desire, he realized a little too late. But it worked.

Hector laughed—loud, brazen and without censure. It was the first Chris had ever heard from his mouth, and it rang like deep, silver bells through the dark and fragrant air of the office. “Well done,” he laughed. “You’re more clever than I gave you credit for.”

Chris smiled in response, but the comment turned his mind. When the laughter died down, he asked, “What _do_ you give me credit for?”

Hector’s smile widened, back to the familiar Cheshire grin. “You are a smart man, Chris. You have potential to be great—to be driven.” He winked. “But you’re lacking opportunity. I will see to it, before our companionship is out, that you are given that chance.”

It was simultaneously the oddest and most sincere compliment Chris had ever been given. He could think of nothing to do but say, “Thank you.”

Hector raised his glass a final time. “To the driven.”

....

When the lights had gone out in the little shop, and the outer door clanged shut with a harsh bang, Llewellyn stepped with quiet grace down the stairs. The light remained on in Hector’s office. It spilled between the crack of the open door, casting a path of light out into the darkness. He followed it, slipping in to stand at the doorframe of the office. Hector sat alone, staring thoughtfully at the near-empty bottle of liquor. Silence settled between them, an unspoken understanding. And then:

“He’s the one,” Hector said.

If the statement surprised Llewellyn, his expression didn’t betray it. “Are you certain?”

“I am. Are you prepared?”

He did not answer. “You are becoming attached to him.”

Then Hector looked up to the shadow in his doorway; his voice rang like steel. “That man is precisely what we need, and I have taken great steps to ensure his loyalty. Do not mistake that for cowardice.”

“I did not question your dedication. But you know what his fate may be.”

His hand clenched in a fist. “Sometimes the sacrifice of emotion is more binding than any oath. He will follow when I ask, and that is what matters.”

The words struck a blow. Llewellyn’s jaw set. His eyes glinted in determination. “Then it is time he and I played a game.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...This was one of my favorite scenes to write. Hector is a conniving bastard. Llewellyn's not actually wrong. And Chris is in way over his head before he even realizes it. :) 
> 
> Also, the way Hector was drinking that scotch is a sin. But he knows it, so I let him. Exposing himself to Chris might take more fortitude than he lets on.


	9. A Game of Chess

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hector plays a royal flush. Tory plays a wild card. 
> 
> Or, Chris drinks the Kool-Aid.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning for psychological manipulation and mention of child abuse.

“Do you play chess?”

Chris looked up from the almanac he perused. After last night’s bout of drinking, he’d taken it easy, discarding his usual reading material for a mellower list of numbers he couldn’t really focus on. In his distraction, Llewellyn had come up silently and stood to his left, wearing a look entirely indecipherable.

Chris blinked. “…Not in years. Why?”

Llewellyn reached past him, pulling an old, worn chess box from underneath the register. “I need someone to play with.” He set the box down on the counter and began unloading the pieces. “I prefer white. Do you remember the rules?”

Taken aback by the boy’s assertiveness, Chris fumbled. “I… I need to man the register.”

Llewellyn glanced around the empty shop with a tinge of amusement. “Obviously.”

Chris couldn’t help but feel he was missing something. “Hector won’t like me slacking on the job,” he tried.

Llewellyn smirked. “He’s the one who told me to ask you.” Deft, slender fingers aligned the pieces on the board, setting them precisely and with intention. “Play with me.”

Seeing the board set, and knowing there was very little he could do to contest it, Chris settled in for the game. He grabbed the final handful of black pieces and began positioning them himself. “Alright, but I have to warn you I’m not very good.”

Llewellyn smiled. “I’ll help you. Just do your best.”

The encouragement felt odd coming from a boy who spent the last six months ignoring him at all cost, but Chris tried to take it in stride. Once the board was set, Llewellyn stepped around to the other side of the counter, surveying each piece to make sure it was set properly. Then he reached out and, without hesitation, slid his first pawn forward. The game began.

For the first few minutes, they played in silence. Chris moved slowly, trying to remember the strategies he acquired as a teenager playing with friends. At first he feared Llewellyn would beat him soundly in the opening moves, but when he saw the boy angled for a longer game, he relaxed a little.

“You don’t talk much,” Llewellyn said abruptly as his bishop advanced.

Chris bit his lip and countered. “Neither do you.”

This brought a ghost of a smile to the boy’s face. “I don’t have much reason to.”

“Neither do I.”

A knight moved forward to join the bishop. Llewellyn seemed completely calm, in control. He did not pause before moves, as though he knew what they were before he made them. It unnerved Chris a bit. “I never see you with other kids… Do you go to school?”

A smirk. “No.” He shifted again. “I find them tedious. It is your move.”

He couldn’t help the feeling that his opponent was hanging back—Llewellyn had an altogether unsettling air of superiority in this game. “What about brothers or sisters?” he tried.

Then he struck—Chris’ first pawn disappeared. “My sister imprisoned me and told the world I was dead. I am hardly interested in conversing with her.”

The words came so coldly, so dispassionately, it took Chris a moment to process their meaning. “She… what?”

Llewellyn continued while knocking another black piece from the chessboard. “I was young at the time. She falsified the details of an accident and made it appear I was dead. No one knew to come looking.”

“I… I’m sorry,” Chris breathed.

Without blinking, he gestured down to the board: “Your move.”

Trying to get his head back in the game, Chris turned his attention to the miniature pieces. “Is that why you came to live with Hector?”

Llewellyn nodded. “Hector was a friend of my sister’s. He found me and brought me here, out of her reach.”

Memories of last night flowed through Chris’ head—the evil queen and the knight who loved her. Briefly Chris wondered if there was more to the story, if Llewellyn was somehow involved. “He’s a kind person,” he said out loud.

Llewellyn smirked. “He is a better chess player than you.”

Chris couldn’t help but notice the tide was turning rather definitely against him on the game board. “I warned you,” he laughed. “I haven’t played in years.” He advanced his rook, only to earn a frown from his opponent.

“I would not make that move,” the boy said.

Chris glanced up, trying to assess his intention. “Why not?”

“You are sacrificing your rook too soon. It might seem cumbersome now, but you will need it in the endgame.”

“Endgame?” Chris’ brows furrowed.

Llewellyn sighed with impatience. “The final stage of the game, when the victor is decided. Rooks are difficult to maneuver when the board is clouded by other pieces. But once they have freedom to move, they become essential.”

Puzzled, Chris could only shrug. “I don’t see another move I can make without compromising my queen.”

Llewellyn stopped and scrutinized the board momentarily, as if assessing from a new view. With a grim nod, he decided: “I’ll make you a deal.”

Chris was skeptical. “What kind of deal?”

“I will allow you the rook, if you sacrifice your knight.”

Chris looked down to the horse resting safely behind a wall of pawns. “Why do you want my knight?”

The question annoyed him. “Because this game will be over very quickly otherwise. Do we have a deal?”

He appraised the board from all different angles. He couldn’t see how giving up his knight would affect the game; with a half-hearted shrug, he offered, “Alright.” He picked up the piece and held it out.

Llewellyn reached for it; a loud snap and jolt of pain hit Chris’ fingers—a spark of static electricity. He stifled a shout, noticing with annoyance the Llewellyn hadn’t even felt it.

“Thank you,” the boy smiled. He placed the piece alongside the others stacked to the side of the game board. “Now… Shall we continue?”

....

In the end, Llewellyn thoroughly trounced him, even with the rook. It was an odd way to pass his shift, but more interesting than browsing the almanac. Seven o’clock often came slowly, and he was ready when it did. But as he reached for his bag, the inner door opened again.

Hector moved through, and his expression lit at finding him. “Chris! I’m glad you’re still here. I wanted to speak to you.”

Chris set his bag down on the counter. “Is something wrong? I told Llewellyn I shouldn’t be playing chess on the clock…”

Hector’s smile was genuine. “No, I told him to ask you when he needed a chess partner. Not about that. This is about the discussion we had last night. I told you I would see to it you had a chance to find your drive before our time is out.”

“Yeah…” Chris said skeptically.

“I think I’ve found the opportunity. I’m going on a business trip, related to the project I have been working on this past year. It involves research on the ancient civilizations of this area. I’d like you to come with me. The reward for those involved will be lucrative.”

It sounded too good to be true. “Ancient civilizations in this area? You mean Native Americans?”

“Of a stripe,” Hector answered. “Llewellyn and I leave this Saturday evening. Are you interested?”

Chris only hesitated a moment. “Absolutely! Thank you for inviting me.”

Hector clapped him across the back. “There’s no one else I’d rather have with us, Chris. And I say that with honesty.”

His praise flamed the excitement welling in Chris. “What will I need to bring?”

“Just yourself, and a change of clothes. I’ll take care of the rest. We should be gone a week, but if the adventure proves successful, it may extend our stay. I would let those who would miss you know you’ll contact them when you are able, and not to worry if we’re not back by next Saturday.”

From anyone else, the request would have sounded incomplete. But Hector had a way with words, an infectious quality to his earnest excitement that cleared any suspicion Chris had in his mind. He picked up his bag. “What time should I be here Saturday?”

“Four o’clock,” he instructed. “If you are late, I’m afraid we may have to leave without you.”

Chris shook his head “No, I’ll be here. Thank you again,” he burst eagerly. “Really, I appreciate it.”

“You have earned it, Chris,” he smiled, and walked him toward the door. “I look forward to having your expertise with us.”

The solid clunk of the metal door shut behind him, and Chris inhaled a deep breath of evening air—whatever Hector was onto, it was bound to be big. And Chris had just won himself a ticket for the ride.

 

....

“And he just invited you to come along?”

Tory sat on the bed, watching Chris pack his bag. The look of dismay on his face was clear—but Chris wasn’t biting.

“He’s my boss. I can’t just say no.”

The fire in Tory’s eyes sparked. “No, you could have said no. You just didn’t want to.”

Indignation lit in Chris’ chest. “Why is this such a problem? It’s not like he’s asking me to transfer to another city or anything—it’s just a business trip. People take them all the time.”

“If it were just a business trip he would have told you where you were going. He would have given you more notice than _tomorrow evening_. And he would have told you what it’s about.”

Chris was reaching the end of his rope. He'd come home last night to find Tory gone, the apartment dark. It stung more than it should have. “I told you, it’s about his project that he’s been working on for the last year, about the history of New York. I wouldn’t expect you to understand.”

It was a low blow, and Tory felt it. “You mean because I’m not an academic,” he growled. “Because I’m not smart enough.”

“I didn’t mean that,” Chris qualified. “I just meant—”

“Has it ever occurred to you that your boss has other intentions?”

“What?”

“He’s shown an awful lot of interest in you this last week. He invited you for drinks—that’s never a good sign. It means he wants something.”

“Maybe he does,” Chris bit. “Maybe he likes my company. Maybe it’s nice to have another academic to talk to. I’ve told you it’s like a family there—”

“Which is what worries me!” Tory burst. “Can’t you see it? He’s trying to isolate you; he wants you under his control. What if…” His voice trailed off, suddenly breaking. “I’ve seen a lot of bad situations in my life, Chris. More than you can understand. My gut is telling me to stay away from this guy.”

The dark change in tone frightened Chris, but the words didn’t make any sense. “I can’t lose my job—the only job I could find in months—just because you have a bad feeling.” He sighed, and fell still in frustration. “Are you sure…” He wanted to say it, but couldn’t.

He didn’t have to. “You think I’m jealous of him.”

“Well,” Chris sighed, “I mean… I’ve been working some late hours lately. He’s our age…”

“And he has what I don’t,” Tory finished. “He understands you—you guys are a perfect fit.”

The sudden brink made Chris’ stomach drop. “What are you saying?”

“I’m saying… I’d be happy for you. I _would_ ,” he asserted, challenging Chris’ recoil, “if it weren’t for the fact that he has danger written all over him. This isn’t just about my feelings anymore, Chris. Even if you decided to walk away now…” A sorrow imbued his tone, even as he said it. “I would hope… I would _pray_ , that it wasn’t for Hector. Because I don’t want to see you hurt.” A deep breath. “So I’m coming, too.”

Chris’ brain tripped. “What?”

Tory exhaled in exasperation. But when he spoke, his voice was quiet. Earnest. “Let me come with you on this trip.” His eyes darted up to meet Chris’ own. “After that, if you want to try to be with Hector, I won’t get in the way. I'll pack my bags. But let me at least be your friend… Like a designated driver,” he added, even as his expression softened. “I know you want this—I won’t be able to stop you. At least let me be there if things go wrong.”

The generosity and selflessness of the offer struck Chris to the core. For a moment, he felt a pang of regret: he could say no, stay here with Tory and tell Hector he couldn’t make it. 

But deep down, he knew it would mean the end of everything he had been working toward at the book store. And his friendship with Hector. The more Tory refused to offer any ground, refused to commit, the farther away Chris pulled.

But he could give Tory this. With a kind of simple resignation, he accepted the decision. It would be good to have Tory with him, for support. It would be a last chance, a final ditch effort.

Chris tossed Tory a t-shirt. “Alright. We better finish packing.”

 


	10. Lights Out

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title taken from [Lights Out](https://youtu.be/VIq9LCGgsdY) by Breaking Benjamin.

When Chris arrived at the bookstore that Saturday evening, Tory entered beside him. The gentle clang of the bell announcing their arrival echoed through the front room. The shop was empty, devoid of life. If Chris didn’t know any better, he would say the place was deserted, but the certainty that Hector was a man of his word reaffirmed his determination. Once Tory was through, he turned and relocked the front door.

Stepping down the rows of shelves, Tory surveyed each with an awareness Chris had never seen in him—a soldier scanning a hostile environment.

“This way,” Chris murmured. He wasn’t entirely sure what he was going to tell Hector—he’d delayed thinking about it, because he didn’t want to contemplate what the reaction would be. He told himself Hector would understand; they were friends, after all. But one thing he had learned about Hector: his reactions were never predictable.

They made it to the door marked _Employees Only_ and stepped through.

Hector stood at the door of his office, silhouetted against the golden light of the lamp beyond. At the sound of the door, he turned.

Satisfaction, and then concern darkened his expression as he beheld first Chris and then his guest.

Chris crossed the last few feet and launched into explanation. “Hector, this is Tory Rask, my boyfriend. He… wanted to come,” he finished lamely. Anger flashed through his employer’s eyes, and Chris had a sudden fear he had miscalculated. “He was worried about me being gone indefinitely.”

Tory stood tall at his side in the darkness, unflinching under Hector’s calculating scrutiny.

For a moment, there was silence. Then, with a resigned smile, Hector extended his hand. “A pleasure to meet you, Tory.”

Chris could sense his boyfriend’s hostility, even as the two men shook hands. He wondered if Hector could sense it, too. “Likewise,” Tory was saying. “I hope you don’t mind me coming. I was uncomfortable with the amount of information you gave Chris. I wanted to make sure everything was on the up and up.”

Chris winced at Tory’s candor. Hector’s reaction slid underneath a mask of unreadable appraisal. “I can appreciate your concern,” he answered. No effort to dispel Tory’s fears, Chris noted, or affirmation of them. Hector walked a neutral line. And it made Chris all the more uneasy.

Llewellyn was a different story.

They followed Hector through to his office, and found that the entire floor had been cleared—the desk was pushed unceremoniously up against the bookshelves, and on it, Llewellyn sat cross-legged in front of a chess board. The entire scene was so unexpected, Chris stopped dead in his tracks. “What the…”

At the sound of his voice, Llewellyn glanced up from his game. His eyes turned to ice. “Who are you?” the boy demanded, staring directly at Tory’s large silhouette.

Hector moved in. “He is Chris’ boyfriend. He is concerned about our endeavor, and has chosen to come.”

Llewellyn opened his mouth to argue, but Hector cut him off. “The die has been cast, and it would be unwise to change our plan now. We must continue.”

The boy’s temper flared, obviously incensed at being dismissed. But he bit back his rage, saying coolly to Hector, “You are an unmitigated disaster.”

The tension in the room settled into Chris’ bones, and he shifted uneasily. Tory said nothing, even as Hector’s mood lightened. He moved further into the room, where a pile of canvas bags had been arranged in the center.

“Come on in, both of you. We’ll be leaving momentarily.”

Tory’s eyes narrowed, but he said nothing.

Chris wasn’t as guarded. “Where are we going?”

Hector’s wicked grin met him.

Then the world exploded in crackling blue light.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Took 'em a bit to get there, but they made it. :) 
> 
> Just a head's up - this will be the last update for the week. The next chapter deals with some big reveals / character shifts. Draft is already written, but needs some fine-tuning before it's ready to post.


	11. Down the Rabbit Hole

It was dark.

The first thing Tory noticed was the air—warmer, humid. The cold New York autumn was infused with uncharacteristic heaviness, like the damp of a cave. His eyes flashed open.

He stood in a forest. Great hemlocks the size of giants surrounded as sentinels on every side, blackened bark unnaturally gnarled and contorted. The last rays of a dying sun drifted down through the leaves, doing little to illuminate the thick bed of loam and moss on which he stood. Not a glimpse or whisper of civilization could be found—only wild forest and an uncanny stillness. This was familiar; too familiar. Tory shifted uneasily, turning in search of an explanation. His eyes darted from the silhouette of Chris at his three o’clock, the boy to his nine, bags on the ground, Raethgard at his twelve.

The anomaly—Raethgard. In apprehension, Tory’s gaze flitted up the line of his body, the long black-clad legs; the man had tensed, as if braced for an impact. Curious, Tory allowed his gaze further up, to the confident, glinting eyes and wicked smile of triumph.

Then Tory knew.

He was home.

 

....

Chris stood disoriented. He saw Hector and Llewellyn standing as they had just moments ago. Tory remained at his side. But all around them, wilderness crawled. Strange trees, unnaturally warm climate and the sudden silence jarred his awareness. Like taking a single step, only to find himself thousands of miles from where he started. His brows furrowed, his consciousness attempting to adjust: this was wrong.

Then Tory moved. In the autumn sunset, Chris caught the glint of silver off the barrel of a heavy, semiautomatic handgun; Tory raised his hand and aimed the barrel directly at Hector.

“Take us back.”

The low growl came from the bass of Tory’s chest, like a panther. Hector froze—a flicker of surprise darted across his face; then in answering challenge, a smile. He faced Tory head on.“Well, this is a surprise.”

“Take us back!” he repeated, stepping forward. “ _Voveo qua ex sole, nun revartar vel_ _interficiam te_ _…_ ”

It took Chris a moment to catch—Tory was speaking Latin. The words rang too quickly to translate in full; it was a dead language, and Chris had never heard it spoken so fluently. But he understood the phrase: _I will kill you_.

Hector’s eyes widened as well, but it was with a different kind of recognition. The threat didn’t frighten him. “You betray yourself, Tory,” he said, almost mocking in amusement. “You have been among mortals too long.”

“It only takes one bullet to kill you,” Tory growled back. “And I have ten.”

Hector’s leer did not fall. “And if you miss your first shot, do you think you will have time for a second? How long has it been, since you fought another fey? Will you gamble your life on your skill?”

“Just… Stop!” Chris stepped forward; a note of panic pervaded his voice. “What happened? Where are we?”

Tory’s frown curled in a snarl. “Ask your _employer_ ,” he spat. “He lied to you.”

“As did you,” Hector returned. “Put down the gun, Tory. It’s time he knew the truth.”

“What truth?” Chris demanded, looking from one man to the other. “What the hell is going on?”

A silence settled, ominous and heavy in the waning light. When Tory spoke, it resonated with disgust. “They are fey, Chris. _Lares_. They tricked you and brought us to our deaths.”

“I invited him through to join an endeavor,” Hector qualified. With unnerved clarity, Chris realized Hector’s voice had changed—the measured speech gave way to a Germanic accent, soft, but distinct. “What is your excuse, Tory? When were you going to tell him your little secret?”

Chris’ mind spun in a chaos. “What do you mean, fey? Where are we?”

“There are two realms, Chris,” Hector began; his accent came through more thickly. “The realm of mortals—Otherworld—where you raise your cities and live your lives. You think it is the only reality.”

Chris didn’t like where this was going.

“But there is another realm that exists alongside it. Another world.” He looked Tory in the eye with calm certainty. “ _Our_ world.”

Tory’s frown hardened. “It’s not my world anymore.”

Hector didn’t acknowledge the defiance. “It is Amaranth, Chris. The realm of the fey. You have read about it all your life. And now you are here.”

“Fey,” Chris said dubiously. “Like the old Celtic myths? Fairies?”

“In part,” Hector nodded. “Your myths—most of them—come from fact, before the world was divided. In the ancient days, we existed together. Now only a few pathways remain in between the realms. Mirrors, we call them.”

“That was no mirror you took us through,” Tory growled.

Hector nodded. “It was a fabricated mirror—a portal, if you will.”

“Impossible!” Tory barked. “The mirrors are shifting, uncontrollable! You can’t harness them—”

“It was not _harnessed_.” The snarl came from their left—Llewellyn stood, completely nonplussed at the gun now trained on Hector’s head. “It was created, organically, where I wanted.”

Tory’s eyes widened. “That’s impossible! No fey could—”

“The boy could,” Hector said quietly. “He is a sidhe.”

The color drained from Tory’s face.

A small, dangerous smile betrayed Hector’s amusement. “You see—your threats are empty. You may be a warrior, but the moment you fire your weapon, you make enemy of a demon. And I doubt he will be forgiving.”

Chris couldn't have foreseen what came next.

Without a hitch, Tory turned the gun on Llewellyn and fired.

A shot blasted the air. Chris heard his voice cry out, but Llewellyn didn’t fall. In the air before him, as a puff of smoke, the bullet disintegrated to dust in the wind. The quiet, intent expression on the boy’s face did not waiver.

Tory’s hands shook. His eyes grew wide.

And Hector’s smile broadened. “Do not be fooled by appearances. He is older than he looks. And I’d be willing to wager, older than you.”

Chris’ mind broke. In the stillness, he stepped forward, calling a stop to the madness. “What do you mean, he’s older than us?” His gaze scanned the surroundings, the darkened forest, the gun in Tory’s hand, the hard, unyielding fight in his boyfriend’s eyes. His reality changed, then—the world was not what he thought it was. Tory was not who he thought he was. “Why are we here?”

Hector’s gaze slid up Tory’s shaking hand, to his hard stance, to the fear in his eyes. “I told you, Chris. We are here to research an ancient civilization. If your boyfriend will holster his weapon.”

The words shook Tory from his paralysis. He stepped back, lowering his gun slightly. “You brought us here… for research? For a goddamn book?”

Hector moved forward, completely calm and collected, though he’d had a .45 caliber pointed at him just moments before. “It’s not a book we seek, but information. This is where we will find it. Here, in this forest.”

“But where is this forest?” Chris demanded. “We were just in your office—how could we be suddenly somewhere else? It doesn’t make sense.”

“You will find the truth rarely makes sense,” Hector said. “But in this case, it is simple. We are standing in the exact same spot we were, moments ago. It is still the same location: Manhattan Island. We are simply in a different realm, now.”

Chris had spent years reading of the fairy realm—all incarnations of it in myths and legend. But that was it. It was legend. All the stories, of sidhe and fey and warring gods… It was never meant to be true. “This is… unreal…” he muttered, taking in the sight of the twining trees, the dying flora and rich earth beneath him.

 “You’ll want to rely on your intellect, your education, to make sense of the impossible you have witnessed,” Hector said. “But do not let it prejudice you. Use your senses—you know we have not moved, yet we stand in a different location.” He turned a critical eye on Tory, who stood silent and guarded at Chris’ side. He had not holstered his gun. “In fact, the proof stands before you. Your boyfriend lied to you, Chris, if I am not mistaken.”

A growl emanated from Tory’s chest. “I _never_ lied to him!”

“But you have not told him the truth, either,” Hector returned. “Perhaps you should start with your name?”

For one moment more, Tory resisted. Then his shoulders slumped in a defeated sigh. “Viator,” he conceded. “Viator Rask.”

Chris did a double take. “ _Viator_?”

Hector’s grin widened. “Indeed. And how long have you been in Otherworld? It must have been quite some time, to disguise the truth from a sidhe.”

Tory cast a distrustful glance at Llewellyn, who stood where he began, watching with a quiet sort of studiousness. He bit back a response, even as Chris’ shock drew him back. “I’m sorry, Chris… I tried to do the right thing,” he asserted.

“The right thing would have been telling me the truth,” he snapped harshly.

The sorrow in Tory’s eyes spoke of pain, and regret.

Llewellyn interrupted—the same Germanic accent Hector had fallen to laced his words, as well. “It took me weeks to create the portal that we came through. I cannot do it a second time without weeks more preparation. Whatever your quarrels, that shot will have alerted every Unseelie beast within miles of our presence,” he said. “We must get to cover, or all your arguments and anger will be for naught.”

Tory, shaken and defeated, accepted his words.

And Hector stepped forward, grabbing one of the large canvas bags from the ground. “We must move quickly,” he said with renewed purpose. Unlacing the top, he pulled out a loaded quiver of arrows and a long, black bow. He slung the quiver across his back, and glanced up to Tory. “He is right—our argument has delayed us longer than was wise. What is your preferred weapon?”

Tory faltered for a moment. “A poleax.”

Hector shook his head. “Can you wield a sword?”

At last, Tory holstered his gun and stepped forward. “Well enough.”

When Hector reached into his pack and produced a long broadsword sheathed in black leather, Chris finally had enough. “Seriously? You’re carrying… what, medieval weapons?”

Undeterred, Hector produced a set of knives, strapping them into his boots. “The Unseelie creatures won’t be easily deterred by bullets, Chris. Some of them are wraiths, and others are too quick to spot. The best defense is a blade.” He checked a dagger, sliding it out of its sheath. “This one is yours. Cinch it to your belt.”

Chris barely caught the sheathed weapon as it flew towards him. Its heaviness impressed him with apprehension. “You’ve got to be joking.”

Tory had finished strapping the sword at his side. “I wish he was.”

The comment was cold, and a vein of sorrow flowed through it that unnerved Chris to the core.

Llewellyn, still on the outer ring, grew impatient. “Enough talk! We must leave this place!”

Hector nodded. “Come on, Chris. It will all make sense, just give it a chance. We must move.” He turned and followed Llewellyn into the blackened forest.

Tory hung back for a moment. Looking him in the eye, Chris couldn’t reconcile the anger, sorrow and determination now set on his boyfriend’s face.

“How is this real?” He knew he sounded dumbstruck. But this was all so… fantastic. So impossible. He looked to Tory like a beacon in the storm.

But Tory had no words of comfort. He only hung his head, and set his jaw. “We’ve got to get moving. Hector brought us into the heart of a wilderness.”

 

....

The forest grew denser within yards of the clearing. If Llewellyn truly had fabricated a portal, he seemed to have done it in precisely the right spot. A few dozen feet either way, and Chris was certain they’d have appeared in the middle of a tree.

The others moved quickly and quietly through the tangled brambles of branches and heather—the last rays of the fading sunset did little to penetrate the thick cover of leaves, and within minutes the golden light faded altogether. Chris soon lost sight of Hector’s surprisingly nimble form darting through the trees. Only Tory’s night vision kept them on the right course. After his rather decided failure in the clearing, Hector seemed confident Tory no longer posed a threat, because he readily allowed him to take up the rear guard.

Chris did not need to speculate Tory’s sentiment regarding the others—his dark scowl whenever he looked on Hector was worthy of the most dangerous fey of legend.

 _Fey_. The word still struck disbelief in Chris’ mind. The proposition that Hector, Llewellyn and Tory were of a race of mythical beings filled Chris with skeptical awe. They seemed so human. He always envisioned beings of their stature as greater somehow, grander. But he’d seen them as everyday people for too long to believe they were wiser, grander or inherently smarter than he was himself. And Tory’s actions back in the clearing, pulling the trigger on a thirteen year old boy, left a dark taste in his mouth.

But then, Llewellyn’s apparent power, stopping a bullet and eroding it to dust, was not anything he’d thought possible. Sidhe were said to be incredible beings with powers even regular fey couldn't fathom. There were stories of them growing to adulthood in a single day, and vanquishing beasts no one else dared challenge. Even the name—sidhe—still lived in modern English. The _bean-sidhe,_ or banshee, was still spoken of with fear.

Chris had no idea what Llewellyn was capable of, as a real sidhe, or how old he truly was, but whatever the case, Tory thought him too dangerous to live. He hadn’t even paused to let Llewellyn speak. What was Llewellyn capable of, that he inspired Hector with such confidence and Tory with such fear? And how old was he really, to hold such calculated calm staring down the barrel of a loaded gun?

The trek through the woods was maddening—the sun set fully behind the hills in the west, and it seemed the others needed no light to run by. Questions whirled in Chris’ head, but they remained unanswered.

The others seemed content to leave him in confusion, like a blind man stumbling in the dark. The trees through which they moved were foreign, not the native fauna of any New England climate. They twisted in unnatural directions, making their race through the forest hazardous at best, and dangerous at worst. Chris lost count how many times he ducked at just the last second after seeing a branch he did not expect hanging low through the path. They raced headlong into the brambled woods, until at last he caught sight of Hector’s form in the moonlight, halted on the edge of a clearing.

As he reached him, Chris slowed to a walk.

“Hector, what…”

Then he saw it. In the moonlight, Llewellyn stood in the midst of a grassy clearing. Before him, a great mound rose, a hill raised by unknown hands. Grass covered the ground like a blanket, untarnished by rock or bramble. At the center, facing them, a small stone door stood mutely in the evening quiet, just large enough for a grown man to fit through.

The sight left Chris speechless.

Llewellyn fell to his knees in reverence. “He is here,” his small voice breathed.

Tory came to stand beside them, silent in a very different kind of awe. When at last he spoke, apprehension laced his words. “What is this place?”

Hector’s excitement could not be masked. “It is the burial mound of Orontu, the last great sidhe to walk the these lands.” He turned, spurred into action. “It is also where we make camp.”

At the last words, Tory stiffened. “You intend to sleep here? On the doorstep of a tomb?”

“Not on the doorstep,” Hector answered. He hefted his pack and moved to where Llewellyn knelt. “Inside of it.”

Chris’ gut dropped. “What?”

Hector continued, intent on his task of unloading two large metal crowbars from his bag. “Whatever was living in there is now dead, and the door provides a solid barrier. It will be far better protection than sleeping out in the open with the beasts of the night.”

Llewellyn rose as they drew near. “We will have to break it open. The door is sealed with mortar.”

Hector nodded, and handed the boy a crowbar. “Then we’ll break it open.”

The pair went to work inspecting the door, but Chris stood in a state of disbelief and apprehension. Tory stood beside him, sensing his silence and feeding into it with a brooding frown. At last, Chris managed, “Are they serious?”

“Looks like it.” The dark edge in his tone caused Chris to turn—Tory stood silent, unmoving in the shadows, a stone frown set on his lips. The closeness brought a current of emotion Chris tried to suppress; every night they had spent together, every story, every kiss… It had all been a lie. Tory, the man he had come to trust and love, was just an illusion, a mask for an inhuman being. For all the questions swirling in his head, Chris found he had no voice to speak them. For as much as he felt the absence of their intimacy, this new Tory sent an uneasy chill up his spine.

Without a word, he moved towards Hector and Llewellyn, and let Tory decide his own course.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Latin translations:**  
>  _Voveo qua ex sole, nun revartar vel interficiam te._ : I swear by the sun, return us now or I will kill you.  
>   
>  _Lares._ : In ancient Roman mythology, lares were spirits or guardians. In KoA mythology, it is the Latin equivalent of "fey". More info on lares [here](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Lares).


	12. The Tomb

The door was carved of thick, grey stone. Llewellyn had been right—a mix of what looked like primitive concrete lined the seams, and no hinge could be found. The surface spread smooth and unbroken, with only a small rune to mark the center. In a flight of fancy, Chris pressed it when the others weren’t looking. Apparently magic worked differently here than in movies, though, because the door didn’t budge.

After several minutes of silent protest, Tory reluctantly chipped in, seeming unimpressed with their efforts. Llewellyn relinquished his crowbar to the bigger man, and as they worked, he moved to the outer ring of the clearing, circling the mound in search of something only he understood. The night deepened around them. The forest grew louder, as if every creature awoke to their presence. It spurred them onward, despite the unyielding nature of the stone. All were keenly aware of the blackness surrounding them.

At last, just as Chris was about to throw up his hands in frustration, Hector broke through.

It began as a crack, a single line down the edge of the mortar seam. Then it grew, spidering out down the seal until the stone fell a full inch forward with a rushing exhale of air.

As if in answer, a shriek echoed through the trees behind them. Chris whirled—the sound came from a distance, but it was loud. Angry.

Hector turned as well, eyes darting about the blackened night. “We must get inside,” he said. “ _Now_.”

No one needed told twice.

Chris and Tory scrambled in haste, prying the large stone open with the crowbar while Hector reassembled the gear. The stone stuck, and in a maddening urgency, Hector rejoined them. It took all of three men to move it, sucking precious time they did not have. At last it slid forward, just enough to allow a single person to pass through sideways.

Like a swift-footed deer, Llewellyn came bounding over the mound, skittering to a stop before them. “They know we’re here!” he said with rapid excitement. “The bocans, Hector—they know we’ve come!”

“Get inside! It’ll have to be good enough,” Hector cursed. He snatched the bags from where they lay and shoved them through. Tory took over, and Hector reached down to his boot, drawing a long, steel knife. “Llewellyn goes through first,” he barked. “And then you two. Do not touch anything once inside!”

The forest began to churn around them. With wide eyes, Llewellyn grabbed the lantern and disappeared through the crack.

The panic in the others’ voices jolted Chris with urgency, but as he came to the blackness of the tomb’s entrance, he hesitated.

Tory pushed him forward despite his misgivings. “It’s better than what’s out here! Go!”

He didn’t need further prompting. Instinctively holding his breath, he slipped into the cold, unknown blackness awaiting them. As soon as he was through, he heard shouts, and Tory’s deep voice barking something panicked at Hector. A loud cry—too harsh to be anything human—pierced Chris to the bone. Panic flooded through; Tory should have been right behind him. He stumbled past the last edge of the passageway created by the door, and found Llewellyn standing with cold, unwelcoming eyes in a small circle of lamplight. Then the harsh clang of steel and the loud pop of gunfire came from outside.

Chris whirled; only the blank inside of the door met him. Whatever was happening out there, he was helpless to stop it. His heartbeat pounded in his chest, ready to fight or run, but paralyzed.

As quickly as it began, the chaos fell. Then a rustling came from the outside—something trying to get through the door. It scraped, and clawed. The door shifted another centimeter under its strain.

At last, as if from the grave, Tory’s hand and face appeared through the crack.

Chris exhaled with stark relief. He rushed forward to help him through the rest of the way. His face was strained, but very much alive.

“Damn it,” Chris breathed, “I thought…”

“Not dead yet,” came Hector’s voice right behind him. Moments later he appeared, clutching his bloody knife and wearing a look of absolute triumph. “There were only two, and sluggish. It’s early enough in the night they were only half mobile.”

Chris looked from the bloody knife to the sword and gun still in Tory’s grip. “Two of… _what_?” he asked.

“Bocans,” his boyfriend cursed, sounding almost winded by his passage through the stone. “Night-creatures. They must have heard us hammering on the door.”

“They are guardians,” came Llewellyn’s soft voice. “They appeared because we unsealed the tomb.”

At that, the reality of where they just entered sank into Chris’ being. He turned, half-expecting to see a specter. But only a cold, lifeless chamber met him. Walls of stone rose to encircle them, smooth and unbroken. Llewellyn’s lamp, still burning merrily as a testament of peace, cast its glow out and upwards, towards the steps of a raised platform at the far end of the chamber. And at its height, a plain stone sarcophagus lay, still sealed.

Chris breathed, trying to force his trembling nerves to focus. “Whatever’s in here… It’s dead, right?”

Hector wiped the blood on his knife in the dirt, and sheathed it in his boot. “For centuries. He was a great sidhe, but not indestructible.”

Llewellyn moved forward, surveying the room with cold alacrity. “The tomb is undisturbed.”

“Before we came along and desecrated it,” Tory growled. “What the hell are we doing here?”

“Apart from finding a safe place to spend the night,” Hector began as he scattered the packs around in a ring, “We search for information. This is it, Chris,” he added, gesturing to the walls around them. “I told you we were looking for evidence of an ancient civilization. This sidhe knew of them, and for it, he was slain.”

Chris followed his gesture and found the stone walls were not entirely smooth—runes could be discerned, carved in shallow grooves. With tentative awe he reached out, running fingertips over the cold stone. “What do you mean?”

He continued pulling out provisions and setting up camp, even as Llewellyn inspected the sarcophagus. “Nearly four hundred years ago, on this very spot, a tribe of Mohawk made their home. In those days fey roamed more wildly across the mortal realm—at least, in places where humans were scarce. This sidhe,” he gestured to the sarcophagus, “came upon them, disguising himself as a human to win their trust.”

Chris cast a cursory glance at Tory, who said nothing.

“From what I gather of the story, his intentions were honorable. Orontu taught them many things, and in return, they honored him greatly. He became a venerated member of the tribe, and chose to remain with them in human form.”

“Which was his undoing,” Llewellyn cast acerbically.

Hector nodded. “When they discovered his true nature… It was only a matter of time, of course. But when they did discover him for what he was, they named him an evil spirit and cast him out of the village. Angered, Orontu returned in the night to reign fury upon them, the likes of which have never again been seen in the mortal world.”

“Fire and brimstone?” Tory asked sardonically.

Hector frowned. “Hardly. During his wanderings in the fey realm, Orontu had come upon the very people group we search for. It was a task to bind even a handful of them to his power, but once he had, he returned to the Mohawk village in the night, and set them loose.”

“Set them loose?” Chris murmured. “You make them sound like animals.”

“They are not animals, Chris,” Hector answered. “They are the Fomorians.”

Disbelief shot through his conscious—“You can’t be serious!”

In confusion, Tory looked from one man to the other. “Fomorians?”

In numb shock, Chris stuttered: “They… They’re beings in Irish mythology. They symbolize the forces of primordial chaos.”

“And they are,” Hector grinned. “They are beings of shadow, wraiths of the night. They are unlike any fey living. And Orontu, this sidhe, made them his ally.”

It couldn’t be possible. “The Fomorians were defeated—wiped out in battle with the Tuatha Dé Danann,” Chris countered.

“They were defeated, yes,” Hector agreed, “But those that remained fled the British Isles. Like your Vikings, they came across the sea and faded into the wilderness of New England. It is why no fey will settle on the mainland in this stretch of the forest. They say it is the Unseelie who are too wild to combat, but in truth, it is the Fomorians that will suffer no other to live in their lands.”

Tory didn’t like what he was hearing. “And you brought us into the heart of their hunting grounds.”

“I did what I had to,” Hector countered. “This is where we needed to be.”

“To find some… _information_ ,” Tory spat the word with disgust. “You’d risk our lives for a book to add to your library.”

Hector rose. “It is not the information that is our end goal. It is where the information will lead us. And I do not recall inviting you on this venture, Master Rask. You chose that yourself.”

“To defend Chris,” he countered. “You can’t tell me he had any idea what you were leading him into—what you’d ask of him!”

“He knew it,” Hector growled. “He knew and embraced it. This is the chance of a lifetime for him!”

Anger welled in Chris—he couldn’t contain it anymore. “Both of you lied to me!” he barked, silencing them. “Both of you! _You_ ,” he looked to Hector, “planned all of this for months without ever breathing a word of it. You could have just told me, shown me. You could have proved it to me, without sneaking around and lying to get me here.”

He rounded on Tory. “And _you_ …” A tinge of grief came then, as a lump in his throat he swallowed in anger. “You’re even worse! How long were you going to wait, before you told me you weren’t human? Months? Years? God…” Chris cursed as the reality of it all hit him. “All those nights, when you shut me out and shut this down. It wasn’t because of us—it was you!”

Tory hung his head, unable to argue.

“No matter how we got here, we are,” he said with finality. “And I want the truth from both of you.”

Silence descended. At last, Tory’s quiet voice broke the air. “What do you want to know, Chris?”

The invitation hit him like a punch in the gut. “For starters, how old are you? Really?”

“I… Chris, please—”

“How old?” he demanded.

With a weary sigh, “Three hundred and fifty, or so… I lost count when I came to the human world.”

It was an arrow through his heart. “Which was when?”

“...Turn of the century. Just before the first World War.”

Chris took a deep breath. “And when were you going to tell me that?”

Tory didn’t flinch. “I wasn’t.”

Said with such finality, Chris could only breathe in seething frustration. “You were just going to leave, weren’t you? Rather than tell me any truth.”

He sighed. “Chris, I never meant… I couldn’t…”

Chris had heard enough. Rounding on Hector, “And you—why did you lie to me?”

Hector remained unaffected by his wrath; with calm honesty, he stated, “I could not compromise the safety of myself and Llewellyn without being certain of you, Chris. If I had told you the truth, and you chose not to join us, it could have had disastrous consequences.”

“…If you three are done squabbling like a pack of children,” Llewellyn’s voice cut through the air. “I found what we’re here for.”

They turned—he stood behind the sarcophagus, running his fingers along the edge of the stone. Immediately Hector dropped the conversation and joined him. In curiosity, Chris stepped closer.

Tory caught his arm. In a low voice meant only for his ears, he whispered, “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you, Chris. Honestly.”

Sadness crept up on him, heightened by the darkness and solitude of the tomb. “…I am too,” he said, with effort to keep the edge of anger from his voice. “But we’ve got bigger things to worry about now.”

 


	13. Riddles in the Dark

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chris gets more questions than answers. Tory goes all in.

Chris had to admit, he was curious. Hector knew him well to think that once he got here, he would want to know more—know everything—about this strange new world. With eager curiosity he joined Llewellyn at the grave, trying to make out what they pointed to in the dim light.

“You see,” Llewellyn murmured. “Here is the detail of his capture… And here, here he paints the Fomorians.”

Chris squinted, trying to make out the etchings. They were crude, uneven and shallow. He ran his own fingers across them. Something about the spacing of them, the grooves, made Chris frown. “These markings… They were made by hand.”

Llewellyn nodded. “Cut by the sidhe himself.”

“But...” His brain whirred in disbelief. “That would mean…”

“He was alive when they sealed his tomb,” Hector said. “The final turn of the tale. When Orontu returned to the fey realm, he boasted of the slaughter he’d wreaked. The fey here saw him as a threat and a curse—they trapped and bound him here, until he was too weak to fight. ”

A weight formed in the pit of Chris’ stomach, pulling him down into dread. Instinctively he glanced up to the lid of the sarcophagus, as if he would find the sidhe staring back at him with vengeance. But there was nothing—just blank stone.

“Lucky for us,” Llewellyn added. “He was able to get out quite a lot in writing before he died… I’m guessing he took the form of an Unseelie to make claw marks this deep. He was angry.”

It was said with such passive calm, such coldness, Chris couldn’t help but feel a little unnerved by Llewellyn’s distance from the whole situation. Wasn’t he a sidhe, too? Didn’t it affect him, to see one of his own race tortured and killed?

“This is where your expertise is required, Chris,” he continued. “You studied Old Goidelic during your coursework, yes?”

Chris nodded, a little shakily. “Years ago, but yeah.”

Llewellyn gestured him over. “What do you make of these?”

He followed the boy around to the lower edge of the sarcophagus. In the dim light, he could make out hastily scratched markings, a jumble of tics and scrawls. At a glance, he understood why Llewellyn had trouble discerning them. The markings were ogham—ancient Celtic runes—but the words they formed weren’t all in Gaelic. He immediately identified several words in ancient Greek, and at least one Sanskrit term.

He knelt, parsing out the language with fascination. “It’s hard to make out…” he confessed. “The lexicon is scrambled. But here... it speaks of a place.” He brushed the marks with his fingertips as he read. “ _By Narcissus’ waterfall… on the banks of Vaitarna I met shadows… clad in leaves_. _”_

Hector moved closer, crouching at his side to study the runes himself. “Does that mean anything to you?”

Chris tried to focus on the task at hand. “Narcissus was the Greek man who fell in love with his own reflection in a pool. The Vaitarna is a reference to the river the dead cross in Hindu mythology. But neither would be anywhere near here. Both are from cultures halfway across the world.”

“Could it be a reference to the Hudson?” Hector wondered aloud. “The river had great significance to early Americans.”

“But why call it Narcissus’ waterfall?” Chris debated. “Why not just call it by its name, its fey name?”

“Perhaps because it has none,” Llewellyn breathed. “Hector—isn’t there a river known by the Puck-Woads, they refuse to speak of?”

“Because it is cursed,” Hector agreed in triumph. “That might be it!”

Chris’ joy was brief, but genuine. “It goes on.  _I woke them and spoke with them… creatures of my…”_ He struggled to interpret. “ _Type_ , would be the closest meaning. But it’s categorical— _beings of the same kind._ ” His fingers continued down the linear scrawl. _“I did not see the truth of them, only the mask._ ”

Llewellyn glanced to Chris in question.

He had no answer. “The Fomorians didn’t wear a mask, or a guise," he explained. "They came in all sorts of terrible forms… Beasts, Cyclops, and some were said to have been beautiful. Maybe… they’re shapeshifters?” he tried. He wasn’t sure what all the fey were capable of, but he knew enough about myth to know it wasn’t unheard of. And if the old sidhe could shapeshift—could all sidhe?—he wasn't reaching to guess the Fomorians might, too.

Llewellyn took in the information in silence.

Hector was not so reserved. He stood with enthusiasm. “That is it, then! We look on the banks of the unnamed river… Near a waterfall, presumably. That should put us at least in their general vicinity.”

Tory took a startled step back. “Hold the phone. You mean you’re going after them? These… creatures?”

Chris couldn’t help but agree with Tory. “They’re known to have slaughtered and enslaved hundreds of people, Hector. Fey, just like you. They were monsters.”

He looked ready to argue, but it was Llewellyn who answered with calm sobriety:

“They never came against a sidhe. And when they did,” he gestured to the sarcophagus, “he proved the greater. I am willing to take that risk.”

“I’m not,” Tory snapped. “You’ve already put us in enough danger for your _academic_ interest. You’re leading us to our deaths. Chris and I are getting out of here.”

Llewellyn’s eyes narrowed. “I believe Chris decides his own actions.”

Tory turned to him, almost desperate in his plea. “Chris, you don’t know what those creatures are capable of.” His voice lowered, “What _these_ two are capable of. They’ve already lied to you and led you here without a shred of an apology.”

A stab of conscience affected Chris, a fleeting moment of wishful thinking as he felt the air between Tory and himself tense with intimacy; Tory was speaking again, with the certain, dark edge he’d shown that night at the apartment. His heart raced—but this wasn’t the Tory he knew. The man standing before him was an alien being who became more of a mystery with every hour. “They haven’t lied to me any more than you have,” he breathed. “And they’re right: if we really are on the trail of the Fomorians, it will be the most incredible archeological discovery in over a century.” He looked to Hector, who wisely remained silent. "They’ve got us this far. I think we can do this.”

For a moment, Tory looked to argue further. Then his shoulders slumped in a defeated exhale. “You all are insane.”

Hector rose, deciding, “We shall camp here tonight, then, and make for the northern Puck-Woad settlement in the morning. We can leave Tory with enough provision to wait for a mirror, and the tomb will provide safe enough shelter—”

“To hell with your accommodations,” Tory growled. “If he's staying, so am I. I’ll die before I leave him alone with you two.”

The sudden vow stunned Chris.

Hector paused, then accepted the inevitable. “We’ll leave tomorrow, then. An hour after dawn. That should give time for our Unseelie friends to retreat to their dens.”

No one had anything left to argue.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short chapter this time, but wanted to keep this separate from the adventure that gets going in the next scene. More will follow soon, I promise! 
> 
> Because I'm a nerd: Pictures of ogham script carved into stones. [Ogham Stone (Ireland)](http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-xKgAJ5t9HCs/UXAa0DrIARI/AAAAAAAABVw/c2lK2WrLOs0/s1600/DSC_0631.jpg). [Ogham Stone (Scotland)](http://www.angelabchrysler.com/wp-content/uploads/2015/04/rune-stone.jpg).
> 
> Chapter title is taken from a chapter of the same name in _The Hobbit_ by Tolkien. :)


	14. Crossing Water

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Complications.

Chris tried to sleep, but between the occasional rumble of beasts outside and the cold, unchanging presence of the sarcophagus inside, found himself unable. Hector and Tory took watches at the door, alert for any sight or sound of an animal bold enough to force its way through. A couple times Chris was sure he heard the footpads of something large, and a loud sniffing at the door. But whatever the creature was, it must have decided they were too much work to root out, because it passed after a few minutes. With a kind of sick realization, Chris remembered the bodies of the bocans outside. He doubted they would be there when they emerged.

Morning brought with it the promise of hope. They rose one at a time, Llewellyn the last of all. With slight annoyance, Chris noted he seemed to be well rested, even refreshed. He felt a pang of envy at it, then remembered it was likely because the boy was what many would classify as a demon, and that brought him fully awake.

Hector was chipper as ever. “We’ll want to change into more traditional wear,” he said gaily, digging once more into the bags. “If all goes well, we will be among civilized folk by this evening, and we don’t want to call attention ourselves with jeans and sneakers.”

Tory didn’t seem impressed. “When you say civilized…”

“I mean the Puck-Woads, Master Rask. They may be foul, but they are the closest thing to civilization we will meet for two hundred miles. And they will be more than happy to run us through if they think we do not belong here.” He pulled out a pair of leggings and tunic for Chris, and tossed them his direction.

Chris caught the clothing by instinct; his mind was still buzzing. “Puck-Woads?”

“Dwarves, of a sort,” Hector explained. “Or as close as actually exist. They’re hardy, rough and can swing an ax heavier than any fey. They’re charming.”

He couldn’t help but note the sarcasm in his voice—this trip was getting more interesting by the minute.

“Get those on, and I’ll give you the proper equipment once you’re suited.”

Glancing down, Chris realized there was nowhere in the tomb for privacy. The closest thing to cover was the sarcophagus at the other end, and he decided then and there he was not going to change behind a dead sidhe.

Hector handed out clothing to Llewellyn and Tory, though he grimaced a bit. “I’m afraid I wasn’t expecting you, Viator. You’ll have to do with the only extras we’ve got. I can help you, if you do not remember the proper manner…”

Tory snatched them. “My name is Tory. And I can dress myself, you ass.”

Chris stifled a snort. Then he realized he just might need help himself. The tunic was strung with leather lacings, and the leggings had strange buckles down the side he couldn’t determine the purpose for. A bit self-consciously, he undressed, and slid them on as best he could.

His struggle must have been apparent, because after a few moments, he felt someone step to his side.

“Mind if I help?”

Tory’s warm voice rolled across him, with a gentleness Chris had not heard in days. He tried to ignore it, but when his hands fumbled the buckles again, he sighed in frustration. Letting them fall to his side, he gave up; “…Alright.” He turned.

Tory had finished dressing. And he looked for all the world like a fey prince. His tunic and leggings fit closely, covered in a net of straps securing his sword and knife at his side. The leather of his holster wove through them, as well, and Chris caught the gleam of the handgun hidden beneath a larger satchel at his waist. Leather arm guards pressed with twining currents and strange, fish-like creatures authenticated the stature of medieval knight, yet with the hard edge of a military man in fatigue.

Chris’ jaw clenched as his boyfriend stepped forward, taking the leather laces with calm surety. “They had a different style, where I lived,” Tory murmured as he loosened the fabric at his collar, then reached for Chris’ wrist to bind the laces. “But it’s more or less the same. Form follows function, right?”

He glanced up, catching for a moment the closeness of Tory’s presence, the familiar curve of his jaw and the hint of a smile on his lips. “…Thank you,” Chris murmured. And then, in afterthought, “Where _did_ you live?”

Tory looked up at him with a sad smile. “A city named Orulia, in the kingdom of Quintos. It’d be Michigan in the human world.”

More hesitantly, he wondered: “Why did you leave?”

Tory’s smile faded. He looked at first as if he wouldn’t answer. Then, “My king commanded something from me I wouldn’t do. Better to become an exile than a traitor.”

The sadness impressed him with sobriety. “I’m… I’m sorry.” He knew he’d only scratched the surface of a dark and potentially dangerous past. But hearing the words from Tory’s mouth, admitting to what he had been, made a tinge of hope rise in Chris’ throat. He swallowed it, knowing this was not the time or place for private discussion.

Then he caught, from the corner of his eye, the sight of pale skin and black fabric. Hector was in the midst of pulling his own tunic on; his lean, muscular form bent with casual grace, and the fabric slid down his body. It was the first he’d ever seen Hector less than fully clothed, and the effective intimacy of it startled him. His gaze caught, and held.

Then Hector glanced over and caught him mid-stare. A knowing smile bloomed on his features, and he cast a wink.

Color flushed Chris’ cheeks; remembering himself, he turned and glanced down to Tory, who was finishing with the buckles at his hips.

Guilt tugged at Chris’ gut—his boyfriend was doing his best to make amends. He knew thinking about Hector was a shit thing to do. He also knew both men were fey, and he would never truly understand either of them. With an apologetic murmur, he said, “Thank you.”

Tory smiled, and cinched the last strap tight. “Now all you need is a weapon, and you’ll look like a real fey.”

....

Once they were dressed and suited—Hector now looked fully the medieval archer, complete with leather finger guards and knee-high boots—they were ready to depart. Hector slid through the crack with dagger drawn. When he returned, he wore a smile. “The sun is up and the beasts are gone. We are clear to pass.”

It brought a relieved exhale from Chris; he didn’t know why, because whatever was out there last night was still very real, and apparently just hiding from the daylight. But when he slipped through the doorway and came fully into the sun, the warmth of it melted his apprehension, as well. They had the entire day ahead of them, and they knew where they were going. It had the beginnings of a promising venture.

As he suspected, the bodies of the slain bocans had disappeared from the clearing. Only bloody smears of grass remained. He crossed his arms against the cold shiver down his spine.

The sight didn’t seem to impress the others with the same fear. There was a quiet moment as Tory emerged, but soon Hector glossed over it. “We’ll head due west, and that will take us to the shore. Once there, we’ll have to locate the bridge for easy crossing to the mainland.”

Tory’s brows furrowed. “A bridge?”

“Aye.” He shouldered his pack and followed Llewellyn into the trees. “Made long ago, when the Puck-Woad first started populating this area. Before they realized it was cursed.”

They started through the wilderness, walking at a brisk and unbroken pace. The forest was easier to navigate in the full light of day. Worn paths could easily be seen, walked by the very beasts of the night they had avoided. Both Tory and Hector kept their weapons drawn in case they encountered trouble, but none came. After the battle of last night, it seemed the forest had deemed them worthy to pass unhindered. As the sun reached its highest point, they broke the edge of the wood.

A long strand of rocky beach met them; the roar of surf crashed against unwilling rocks, violent as the waves of an incoming storm. It was strange—the Hudson was a brackish river, in the mortal world, and Chris couldn’t remember ever seeing the waves roil as they did now. A hundred feet out, mist cloaked any sign of the opposite shore, defying the sunlight in brooding challenge. It all felt surreal, and not for the first time, Chris denied the urge to pinch himself.

Llewellyn was the first to stop, surveying the lay of exposed turf with a harsh frown. As Hector caught up, followed by Chris and Tory, he murmured, “We are too far south.”

Hector nodded. “It would seem so. Not to worry, though. We’ve still got plenty of hours of daylight to make it to the Puck-Woad settlement. We best start north. The bridge there will lead us across the channel.”

....

The bridge was even worse than Chris expected.

A long, rickety-looking stretch of twisted iron and rotting planks, it extended out, then disappeared in the mists. The design was beautiful, skillfully worked curves and embellished fasteners. It was old, though—even Chris could see that. The waves blasted against the iron structure, making it tremble and groan.

Chris had to stifle a groan of his own. “Are you sure there isn’t a boat around here somewhere? A ferry?”

He thought it was a valid question, but Llewellyn seemed annoyed. “This bridge has stood longer than your country. I think you can suffer to trust its handiwork.”

He shuddered, then followed Hector up onto the steps. “You have a lot of faith in these… Puck-Woad.”

“We have good reason,” Hector explained as they crossed up onto the planking. “Puck-Woad—and Tinkers, of which they are a division—are master craftsman. It’s all they think of, the most rational way to build a thing. They are akin to the dwarves of your modern legend—craftsman and miners. They build things to last.”

“The Puck-Woad aren’t normal Tinkers, though,” Tory growled behind him. “Even the wildest of fey think they’re mad. To live in this wasteland, they must be.”

“It is their home, and has been as long as they can remember,” Hector countered. “They wouldn’t let a bit of darkness drive them from their home.”

“And for that, I call them mad.”

As the bridge groaned and made way for the party’s passing, Chris couldn’t help but think Tory was right. If the mainland was as wild as the island had been, these new beings must have more steel than most people.

“Not that they isolate themselves,” Hector went on. “They are competent seamen, and they bring their wares up the Hudson to trade with the inland towns and cities. Which is how I imagine you know of them, Tory, being a man of Orulia.”

“Only through hearsay,” Tory replied. “They refuse to trade with anyone but their own kin on the outskirts of the city. Sometimes sailors from Atena would tell stories of Puck-Woad ports along the coast. But I never met one myself.”

Hector allowed the statement to rest in the air as they proceeded across the bridge; beneath them, it creaked and groaned and swayed. The smell of rotting wood filled Chris’ mouth, and the dankness stifled his senses; he could hardly smell anything but churning water and decay. He made every effort not to look down through the corroded fasteners to the angry waves below. He didn’t want to think what sort of monsters might live in those depths, or what might happen if the structure collapsed around them, with nothing but the iron grating and rotten wood to cling to. He’d never been the best swimmer; he wasn’t eager to test his skill.

When they had covered nearly two thirds of the distance, the bridge ended in a sudden drop.

At first Chris thought the thing had finally collapsed, swept away by the waves and wind that were in no shortage here in the middle of the channel. But once they reached the breakpoint, the drop seemed more orderly than that. Metal rivets had been drilled in the existing poles, creating a kind of looped effect on the shorn ends; it was almost artistic. And in relatively recent times—the grey-green lichen was thinner on the pieces that tied up the ends, unlike the rest of the bridge, which was covered in evidence of having stood in the sea for centuries.

Disconcertingly, Hector appeared to be surprised by this development, as well. He halted and glanced about as if in search of the rest of the bridge. “Well…” he sighed. “That puts a damper on things.”

“We’re very near the shore,” Llewellyn noted. “Perhaps we could swim?”

Fear spiked in Chris, but Hector countered,

“Not in our gear. And it would be unwise to discard our weapons…”

It brought a frown to Llewellyn’s face. “Then how do we proceed?”

Chris listened to them debate the merits of returning to the other shore, or perhaps fashioning a raft of the wood readily on hand, and Tory joined in the discussion, bringing an air of practicality Chris found comforting. At least one other person wasn’t all that eager to get wet.

And as he listened his eyes wandered out to the great expanse of mist and water and waves surrounding them, he noticed something—a small, black blot moving towards them from upriver. He kept his eye on it as it grew closer: definitely heading their direction.

“Guys…” he said.

His voice was lost in the muck of debate.

“Guys!” he tried louder.

They turned severally to look at him.

“I think there’s a ship coming.”

Startled, Hector moved to join him. Chris grimaced at the groan it produced from the iron bars beneath them. “There,” he pointed to the now apple-sized object shredding through the waves on the reach of their vision.

Hector took only a moment, then turned with an unpleasant frown. “Puck-Woad. An entire ship of them.”

Chris looked again—it was an odd shape for a ship, rounder than any vessel he’d seen, and half again as wide. The color could now be discerned as a mottled copper.

“They’ve spotted us by now,” Hector said quickly, dropping his voice. “This might be the opportunity we need, but we must be careful.”

Confused, Chris echoed, “Careful?”

“I did not intend for the Puck-Woad to know of our journey to the island. They will be immediately suspicious of us, if they aren’t already.”

“Then what’s your plan?” Tory asked harshly.

Hector looked first from Chris, to Tory and then Llewellyn with thoughtful appraisal. “…We were traders,” he decided at last. “Our ship wrecked on the far side of the island, on our journey further north. Tory, you’ll be our captain.”

At that Tory stiffened. “Why me?”

“Because neither Llewellyn nor I have adequate skill in Latin to play convincing men of Quintos. And I don’t want to call more attention to ourselves than we will now undoubtedly receive.”

“Why…” Chris began.

“And you do not speak at all,” he said definitively. “Do you understand me, Chris? If they find out you are mortal, there will be dire consequences for all of us.”

“But—”

“If you must speak, do your best impression of a British accent, and for the sun’s sake don’t say anything American. It’s a dead giveaway.”

“I…”

Hector did not allow him to question. “Tory, give as little information as possible while answering any question they have. We want to seem transparent while being completely anonymous. For that sake, Llewellyn is Ari,” he said, “and my name is Titus. Do you understand?”

Tory eyed him with unmasked suspicion. “Why would your own names be dangerous?”

“Do you understand?” Hector asserted urgently—the note of panic in his voice was clear, disconcerting from the usually calm and collected man.

Tory stood defiant, but conceded with a dark growl. “Fine. _Titus_.”

 


	15. Lost in Translation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tory becomes captain. 
> 
> Or, the art of negotiation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Latin ahead. Translations aren't necessary to understanding the story, but are provided at the end of the chapter for the curious. :)

The Puck-Woad ship was nearly upon them. Chris stared up with a mix of awe and fear—now plainly within view, the ship resembled something of a skiff, bowl shaped with a bow and stern sharply pointed upward to beat the largest of the waves that crashed against its hull. What surprised Chris was that it seemed to be made of a dulled kind of copper, like tankers in his own world, but without the accompanying smoke stacks. In fact, the entire vessel seemed to be propelled by nothing more than a small sail masted high above the ship’s deck. It could not have been more than ten feet square. Distantly, Chris was reminded of the children’s illustration of three boys out to sea in a tea kettle.

Hector had guessed correctly—it soon became apparent the ship’s crew spotted them, and it adjusted course directly towards them.

As it pulled up a dozen yards from the precipice of the bridge, Chris caught sight of the crew scrambling like mice over the upper deck. They were small—only four feet at the tallest, and built with stocky girth. They wore a great deal of leather, and even the women—those Chris could assume were women by their builds—wore their hair cropped short to their pointed ears. Some had feathers woven in their hair, and a few more wore knit caps against the cold.

It was a strange scene, but he tried not to gawk. He was supposed to be fey, too.

At last the ship came even with them, and it ground to a halt; a heavy metal anchor clanked over the side. Then a large voice boomed through the air, gravelly and tense:

“ _Sewatonh’etsheras?_ ”

Tory stepped to the fore. His voice echoed across the waves. “ _Ave! Sumus mercatores naufragum per mare. Ego sum navigator!_ ”

There was a pause, then another voice, higher but with no less menace, answered back. “ _Tunc stulti estis! Mercatores ne transeas loco hiems._ ”

Chris managed to catch some of the meaning: they were being chastised for sailing the winter tides.

“ _Haec est prima navigatione per aquilonum. Profecti sumus e Atena._ ”

“ _Stultus estis_ ,” the woman answered. Chris shifted uncomfortably—now they were being called idiots.

“ _Expectavimus pontem ducerent ad terram_ ,” Tory answered, casting an acerbic look at Hector. _“Advenae sumus in hoc. Eramus temerarium_.” It was mangled, but Chris understood the final word—reckless.

Another pause on board the ship, and indecipherable chatter murmured across the waves. At last, a figure appeared on the railing, clutching to a ratline for balance. She was tall for her people, but no less stocky. Her leather vest accented doeskin leggings and armbands. “ _Capimus vos delatum, sed solum Attuket_. _Haec est finalis._ ”

Tory listened to the words, mulling them over quietly. An offer had been made, and for a moment, he looked as if he would consult the others. Then his jaw steeled, and he turned instead back to the woman.

“ _Ego conveniunt_.”

The ambassador smiled and leaped down from her perch. Scrambling came from aboard the ship, then a large section of the copper siding crashed down like a drawbridge, level to the water. Behind it, the deck of the ship came into view; Puck-Woad moved around a small copper lifeboat, shuffling it out onto the edge of the downed siding. It slid easily into the water, and two lithe-looking Tinkers climbed aboard.

Hector stepped up to join Tory at the fore of the bridge. In a harsh whisper he demanded, “What did you bargain?”

“They take us to Attuket,” Tory muttered.

“We cannot afford—”

“It’s the best I could do,” Tory snapped coldly. “You are the one who made me captain.”

It was a valid point, and Hector gritted his teeth. He knew he could say no more, not with the Tinkers now in earshot.

The little bark had come up right to the edge of the broken bridge, though the height of it made Chris shift in nervous uncertainty. They were going to have to climb down the rusting structure to reach their rescuers. And even from up here, it looked slick.

But as the ship parked, one of the sailors opened a small hatch to produce rope with a hook fixed on one end. She stood and began swinging it in a circle like a lasso.

“ _Cavete!_ ” Tory shouted at the last moment, sweeping his arms wide to drive them back from the edge. The large, heavy hook came flying up at them with speed.

The warning was unnecessary—the hook landed with accuracy and definitive thunk in the framework just below where they had stood. And beneath it, a net unfurled to billow in the breeze.

Then Chris understood: it was a ladder. Marveling at the ingenuity, he had to bite his tongue to keep from asking questions. For their somewhat comical and unexpected appearance, the Puck-Woad were clever.

Tory descended first, followed by Llewellyn, Chris and Hector. The ladder swayed under their weight, and Chris forced himself to keep going when the wind buffeted him halfway down. The consistency of the fabric was ropelike, but up close, Chris caught the threads of some metallic substance woven in with it. And yet it was light—he felt oddly like he climbed a spider web, it shifted and responded to his touch so easily.

The little lifeboat was cramped, once they were all aboard. Tory took the front, speaking rapidly with the sailor who had thrown the line. Chris tried to listen in, but it was all too fast and too low for him to catch. He felt isolated, being so far from Tory; through their journey thus far, his boyfriend had kept constant vigil at his side, like a bodyguard. Now Tory was meant to be captain of their crew, and he acted accordingly, affording none of them more attention that the other. It was unnerving how easily Tory slipped into the role—like he had been a captain all his life.

Apparently Hector had the same thought. He stood behind Chris, his usual rakish demeanor swapped for something less attention-getting. He watched the interaction with masked apprehension. At any moment Chris expected Hector to burst forward and join the conversation, however well he could. But he remained silent, watching and waiting. Chris got the distinct sense of a cat, tail in full twitch, just waiting for its prey to bolt.

But Tory was jovial, once he established the Tinkers meant them no harm. “ _Ego Viator,_ ” he said in measured tones, “ _Hic est Chris et Titus. Et puer est Ari_.” Chris understood—he was making introductions.

The woman nodded, continuing in Latin. Chris found he could keep up with effort, understanding the gist of what was said. “I am Howie,” the woman said formally, “And my companion is Murdos.”

Tory nodded to each in courtesy.

“Sit,” she said in equally measured instruction. “And we return to the ship.”

Tory turned to the others and said something quick and decisive in Latin. Chris got the idea and took a seat in one of the bowl-shaped indentations; the others took the hint. The Tinker named Murdos took position at the tiller. He pushed an elegant-looking lever, and a loud clink came from the copper beneath Chris’ feet. With a start he glanced up, expecting dismay on the sailors’ faces. But Howie only met him with a knowing smile.

“First time on a Puck-Woad boat?” she asked.

A little uneasy, he managed a nod. He was supposed to blend into the background, not stick out like a sore thumb. He swore he would double his efforts at not reacting, even as the lifeboat began moving slowly through the waters back toward the larger craft without aid of oars or an audible motor. When they were clear of this, he would have a hundred questions to ask Hector. For now, he kept it all tightly sealed behind mute lips.

The vessel trundled faster, and in minutes they approached the ship. Sailors with ropes and more of the gnarled hooks waited for them. Chris did his best not to flinch when they lobbed the hooks to catch the little vessel as soon as it was in range. They were hauled with unexpected force up on the folded out siding of the ship, which also seemed to double as a loading platform. Men came out to grab the pocked stern of the lifeboat and haul it fully onto the deck.

Once aboard, they were instantly surrounded by a dozen chattering Tinkers, all of whom had some mix of exaggerated features that made Howie and Murdos look so alien. Large, pointed noses, extended chins and elf-like ears seemed to be the hallmark of the Puck-Woad. They were small, but perfectly proportioned in their stockiness. And they all seemed intent on touching him. First it was the burly, gruff looking man who hauled him out of the lifeboat after Chris accepted his hand. The man finished with a giant clap on his back. A woman caught him as he buckled under the blow, then grabbed him around the waist to move him out of the way. In her momentum, she nearly shoved him into Llewellyn, whose own Tinker then caught him by the shoulder and forced him upright with more applied force than Chris thought was strictly necessary. His only comfort came when he caught sight of Llewellyn’s stricken expression. Obviously he was not accustomed to being handled so roughly, either.

“ _Sentekhe’haratát!”_

A booming voice rent the scuffle. Like a clap of lightning, it cleared the air. Chris found himself suddenly standing on his own two feet along with the others in a circle formed by the retreating Puck-Woads.

They parted for a man—a big man, bigger than the others. He strode forward in heavy, clonking leather boots. One look told Chris this was the captain. Apart from his dyed leather vest covered in brass trinkets and a large double-bladed axe, he had the command of someone who was used to being listened to. Dark, glinting eyes set deep in his wrinkled face looked them up and down with hostile appraisal.

“ _Sewatonh’etsheras_?” he said gruffly. Chris recognized it as the voice that had spoken when the ship first anchored.

Howie slipped through the crowd, joining the captain’s side. “Be you Unseelie?” she said in Latin. Glancing over at the captain’s hard expression, she added, “Not that you would say if you were. But it does no harm to ask.”

Tory stepped to the fore. “We are not Unseelie,” he said in his smooth, self-assured tone. “Though we have slain them, this past night. Bocans attacked us as we made camp. We killed them.”

Howie turned to the captain and said something in their language. A murmur erupted through the crowd as she spoke. Then Chris realized—she was translating.

The captain took her words in with silence. If their valor impressed him as it had the others, he made no sign. At last, he spoke again.

“And your crew?” Howie conveyed. “Where are the rest?”

“We… We are all that remain,” Tory answered. The sorrow in his voice struck Chris. It felt real, genuine.

Howie was struck by it, too. “A thousand sorries,” she said, after she had translated. “We lose many to the sea, as well.”

Tory nodded, acknowledging her sympathy.

At last the captain pronounced, “ _Kwarhaten’e’olyakolwen ólahsteten. Kwa’olshate’e’sken’nen. Howé stekhel’emla’tsinorakkso._ ”

Howie’s eyes widened. “You are to be granted full passage,” she said merrily. “No cost—he says you have been taken from enough.”

Tory bowed then, deeply. “I thank you. You are generous.”

“ _Niakwa’atenro’serate kawaristak’on,”_ the captain added.

“You may also conduct funeral rights for your comrades as we sail, if you wish.”

This, at last, seemed to catch Tory off guard. “I… No, no, but thank you,” he managed. “We have… We have honored our dead already.”

And there it was—the sadness Chris had seen in the grey streets of the city, the ineffable shadow over Tory's features. It emerged here under the gaze of a dozen Tinkers, discussing rights of the dead.

He only had a moment to process this, as the captain immediately turned, throwing his booming voice across the wooden deck of the vessel. The sailors responded with machine-like precision. In moments the clank of a retracting anchor was heard, and the thunk of something large and heavy below decks.

Howie stepped forward to meet them amid the clatter. “You are to have the storage cabin to bunk in,” she explained. “It’s empty now, and I can bring you blankets and provisions if you need them. You are lucky,” she said with an earnest smile. “We are making way back home. If we’d had cargo that needed delivered, you may have been left on the bridge!”

It had the air of a joke, but there was no jest in her eye; merely honest pleasure.

“Follow me this direction,” she instructed.

....

The hull of the ship was a long, narrow course down the outer edge. Walking down the metal corridor, Chris felt a fleeting moment of claustrophobia. He was in the belly of a metal ship with no discernible motor to keep it afloat, and apparently a religious lack of windows. His only comfort was that the others seemed at ease, following the bobbing cap of Howie down the hall.

When they reached the end, she turned the wheel crank of a large metal door. It swung open to reveal a wide, semicircular room, completely empty. Their feet scraped dust as they entered, and the smell of stale bread and steel filled Chris’ nose.

“It is plain but quiet,” Howie explained in her even way. “Cold, though. No insulation.”

She was right—chill crept onto Chris’ skin after a few moments.

“I will return with blankets,” she said happily, and slipped away through the door.

When the echo of her feet faded down the hallway, Hector turned to Tory.

“Good,” he said in accented Latin. “Thank you.”

“ _Non tibi ego feci_ ,” Tory answered with a cold growl.

Chris was not certain if Hector understood the reply, but he did— _I didn’t do it for you_. He tried to mask the guilt that rose in his throat. He was responsible for getting Tory into this. And now they were trapped.

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Latin Translations:**
> 
>  
> 
>   _Ave! Sumus mercatores naufragum per mare. Ego sum navigator!_ : Hail! We are shipwrecked merchants. I am the captain!
> 
>  _Tunc stulti estis! Mercatores ne transeas loco hiems._ : You are fools! Merchants do not sail the winter tides.
> 
>  _Haec est prima navigatione per aquilonum. Profecti sumus e Atena._ : This is our first voyage north. We sailed from Atena.
> 
>  _Stulti estis!_ : You are idiots.
> 
>  _Expectavimus pontem ducerent ad terram… Advenae sumus in hoc. Eramus temerarium._ : We hoped the bridge would lead us to the mainland... This place is strange to us. We were reckless.
> 
>  _Capimus vos delatum, sed solum Attuket. Haec est finalis._ : We will take you on board, but only to Attuket. That is our final offer.
> 
>  _Ego conveniunt._ : Agreed. (Specifically, “I agree.”)
> 
>  _Cavete!_ : Look out!
> 
>  _Ego Viator. Hic est Chris et Titus. Et puer est Ari._ : I am Viator. This is Chris and Titus. The boy is Ari.
> 
>  _Non tibi ego feci_ : It was not done for you. (Or literally, “I did not act for you.”)
> 
> So… I went a little overboard on the direct Latin this chapter, because I’m a nerd like that and I love authenticity. Chris is catching on quick, though. He’ll start understanding the Latin more directly in future chapters, so it won’t be near as heavy. 
> 
> Also, apologies in advance for any linguistic mistakes. I’m relying a bit on the fact Orulian Latin would have differentiated from the original Roman use, so it’s not meant to be Latin as we know it, anyway. Technically, there should be a heavy Scandinavian influence to it (more about that and Orulian history will come in Story #3), but that’s a whole other branch of languages I haven’t gotten around to studying yet, and I didn’t want to butcher it. *shame*
> 
> The Puck-Woad language is a whole-cloth invention, influenced by Ojibwa and Mohawk. If anyone is interested, I can dig out my notes on that, too, but Howie is a reliable translator and can be taken at her word. (Seriously, though… This whole adventure would have been screwed without her. XP)


	16. The Star

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Questions in the night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short chapter this time - lots of action in the coming scenes, so posting this as a quick interlude before things get serious for Chris & co.

 Howie returned in a few minutes, arms stacked high with blankets.

“Here you are,” she said cheerfully, handing them to Hector, who seemed surprised. “That’s all I could find, I fear. Nights are cold here.” She looked to him expecting a response.

Tory rescued him. “Thank you, these are plenty. How long until Attuket?”

She shrugged. “Three days, normally. We took time to stop and pick up you lot. The captain is an excellent navigator, though. We will be there in a dog’s dingle.”

Chris tried to stifle a snort.

Howie caught it, and flushed lightly. “I apologize. I did not intend offense.”

“No offense,” Tory replied with a quirk of a smile. “Some of us are unaccustomed to Puck-Woad expressions.”

She smiled with a wild gleam.

Just then, another Tinker poked his head through the door. “ _Howé_!”

She jumped as if stuck with a pin.

“ _Nantuk sarhat’e’ók.”_

“ _Onen_ ,” she answered, and looked to the travelers. “I’m needed on deck. Do with what you have, and I will return with supper.”

And then she slipped out the door, and was gone.

....

Once it was established Captain Nantuk had no plans of interrogation or dumping them over the side, the group settled in for the haul. Chris laid out a blanket and pillow despite the cold hard floor of tanker, and Hector and Llewellyn did likewise, several yards away.

Tory took up his place near Chris, resting with his back against the cool metal of the tanker wall. Even now, in the belly of a Puck-Woad tanker lifetimes removed from the desert sun, he couldn’t shake his soldier’s instincts—he knew he took a defensive position, between Chris and the others. But this trip had gone from bad to worse, and the more he learned about the strange bookstore owner and the sidhe, the less he trusted.

It was a nightmare, being back in Amaranth. Unable to leave, unable to stop someone he loved from getting hurt here. Unable to control events that had spiraled rapidly out of control. The only consolation was that he’d played this part before—putting himself between ambition and the pawn. This wasn't the first time he'd protected someone who stood to lose their lives because of some power-hungry bastard's plan. His entire military career, he’d acted as a shield between the ones who called the shots and the ones who followed orders. Not because he hated the ones who called the shots—not always—or thought they didn't care. But it was easy to forget, when you were pushing paper behind an expensive desk, what war really looked like. What it cost.

His loyalty had never been to the ones in command. It was to the men and women he fought beside. Always had been.

And now... Darkness surrounded him, and Tory didn’t know which way to turn. He couldn't abandon Chris to Hector’s machinations—the further this went, the more he was certain this adventure had nothing to do with academic curiosity. But he couldn't fight them, either. Not without risking Chris' life. For the first time in decades, Tory was no longer certain of his choices. And that was a dangerous position for a soldier in war.

He clung to his only certainty—that Chris would make it out of this alive. He had to. Tory owed him that much.

In the still darkness, he did not hear the quiet approach of a waifish figure. Not until it spoke.

“There is a star in your dreams.”

Startled, he glanced up—the sidhe stood before him, expression unreadable.

Then the words registered. "How..."

“You were a thane," Llewellyn said with a small smile. "A knight. Before you fled.”

Defiance rose in Tory's chest. “I served my king loyally until the end.”

Curiosity piqued in Llewellyn’s eyes, and he sat at Tory’s feet, leaning closer. He continued in hushed tones: “But you saw a star. What is it? Where did it come from?”

Fear rose in the back of his mind. Who was this sidhe, that he could see into people's dreams? “It’s a... a star. It's what I saw, when…”

“When what?” Llewellyn prompted.

He bit back a curse. A wash of anger flooded through him, provoked by the sidhe's questions. “You’ve no right to ask me. You and _Titus_ are leading us to our deaths. What will it matter, if I dream about a star?”

“ _Because_ ,” Llewellyn insisted impatiently. “I have seen the same star. Were you the man on the parapet? The one who jumped?”

It struck a chord in Tory he couldn't mask.

Understanding bloomed in Llewellyn’s eyes. “…That is why you ran," the sidhe breathed. "Why you fight now, to protect those you still can.”

Tory inhaled deeply, trying to harness the raw grief and anger that broke free at the accusation.

....

Chris woke to low voices.

_"That is why you ran. Why you fight now, to protect those you still can."_

His eyes flew open. Tory sat at his side, and near Tory's feet, Llewellyn leaned forward with glinting eyes like he had just unearthed a treasure.

Startled, Chris half-rose, catching the attention of both men. Tory’s eyes lined with unshed tears, quickly masked as he realized Chris was alert. He turned back to Llewellyn with acidic clarity. “I protect him because he shouldn’t be here, anymore than I should. Whatever you have planned... You're monsters—both of you.”

Llewellyn looked as if he might reply, but bit his tongue instead. With a cold frown, he rose and retreated across the room.

Chris looked to Tory, whose red-rimmed eyes watched the boy go.

"Tory..."

"Don't," Tory growled. Beneath the anger, Chris caught the tremor in his voice. Broken. Raw. "Just... don't. Please."

Unnerved, Chris couldn't find it in himself to fight. Whatever else was between them, this... He reached out, grasping Tory's hand in his. His heart broke when Tory held on tighter than expected.


	17. Here Be Dragons

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chris versus reality.

After Llewellyn’s retreat, the night passed slowly. Tory settled into a hard silence, one Chris was afraid to break, both because of Hector’s mandate and his boyfriend’s guarded expression. Chris breathed through the quiet, trying his best not to heed the metal walls around him, creaking under the weight of the ocean on the other side.

The darkness deepened as the lights went out on the other side of the door. Apparently the Tinkers were comfortable in total darkness. It unnerved him. He closed his eyes, trying to pretend he was at home in his own bed, and that he would have to get up tomorrow for work, at a normal job where he wasn’t worried about Tinkers or Hector or anything unusual.

Tory’s steady breathing at his side gnawed his conscience. Chris knew he wasn't sleeping. His role as protector had been firmly cemented, like an Arthurian knight. And like an Arthurian knight, his sacrifices continued to grow. 

Chris is wasn't under any delusions. Tory had said it himself—he never meant to tell Chris the truth. About his past, or what he was. Tory had been ready to walk away, every single day, because he knew Chris would never be able to understand him. And yet, here he was. The idea Tory was here for him, not out of love, but because of a very different reason, drove the spike of doubt deeper. And it was a reason Llewellyn seemed to know more about than Chris himself. 

 _That is why you protect him._   _Why you protect those you still can._

The memory tugged at his gut, and made him restless. He could hear nothing now, no feet on the deck above nor voices along the inner workings of the ship. It was calm, quiet. Eerily quiet.

Then the world shook.

An explosion, a roar blasted through the metal on the far wall, and the ship trembled and rocked under the strain. Chris was thrown into the side, jamming his shoulder. Pain seared his mind. A harsh cry said the others had been thrown, too, and a heavy thump landed on the wall next to him. Chris struggled to rise, but lost footing as another blast rocked the room. “What the hell!”

The exclamation escaped his mouth before he processed thinking it. A cold hand clamped over his mouth, and Hector’s voice rasped in his ear.

“ _Do not speak!_ ”

Chris tried to protest, but Hector’s hand held his mouth shut with unexpected strength. He fought, trying to free himself as the room rolled dangerously sideways.

“An attack!” Tory’s voice cut through the darkness. “We must get above deck!”

“No!” shouted Hector in Latin. “We cannot be known!”

Voices echoed down the hallway and across the deck. The Tinkers were scrambling, shouting. In the chaos, a voice screamed and cut short.

Tory was already strapping on his sword. “They are dying! If we do nothing, we die too!”

“NO!” Hector bellowed. But Tory was already to the door, swinging it wide.

Hector cursed under his breath and let go, even as the room began to right itself. Chris, now stunned to silence, saw Hector’s hands flit over his person, checking weapons. “You stay here with Ari,” he said in a harsh whisper. “Do not come up on deck, do not speak, do not cry out,” he commanded. “You must stay with him at all costs!”

And then he bolted, before Chris had any chance to argue. He slipped through the outer door like a wraith, and was gone.

Disoriented, Chris searched the room for his charge. Llewellyn’s silhouette stood with steady feet over the ruin of bedding, arms stiffly at his sides. Chris scrambled to him as best he could, leaning against the wall for support. “Llew…” Then remembering himself, “Ari! Ari, are you alright?”

But Llewellyn did not answer. He stood still, eyes shut and fists clenched. His brows furrowed in concentration. If he didn’t know better, Chris would say the boy was afraid. He fought the impulse to reach out and touch him, uncertain what the outcome would be.

In moments, Llewellyn’s eyes flew open. With a harsh hiss, he proclaimed: “It is _taniwa_.”

 _Taniwa…_ The name sounded familiar. But Chris was in no state to recall the decade of obscure knowledge he’d acquired. “What’s happening?” he asked desperately. “What’s attacking us?”

Llewellyn’s calm, even expression met him, unimpressed with the chaos and panic swirling around them. “It is a sea drake. A dragon.”

Chris’ jaw dropped. He backpedaled under the momentum of another jolt to the ship. “You can’t be serious!”

A smile quirked his face. “What’s the matter, Chris? You do not believe in dragons?”

His mouth moved, but no words came out. And then, as if in answer to his panic, a deep-throated roar vibrated through the copper, like a lion, but infinitely larger. The screams on deck answered in anger and panic. “You… That can’t be…”

Without a word, Llewellyn made for the door.

“No!” Chris shouted, clambering to catch him. Trying to remember himself, he called out in Latin, “ _Stop! Hector said—_ ”

“Hector did not know it was a sea drake,” he answered, stepping gracefully across the threshold and down the hallway. “It does not matter if we scream. We will either drown or be eaten. I suggest you find a weapon.”

This couldn’t be happening. He couldn’t be here, in the belly of a Tinker ship, under attack by a dragon. The rational side of Chris clung to denial, but deeper, in the core of his being, only the truth remained. The cold, hard truth that this was reality, and they were now fighting for their lives.

Llewellyn did not stop. He reached the ladder and began climbing.

Chris hesitated. But there was nothing he could do. Hector had said to stay with Llewellyn. And Llewellyn was headed into the eye of the storm.

“Shit,” he cursed, and ran after him.

The hatch had seemed complicated, when the Tinkers sealed it that evening; Llewellyn opened it a single flick of the lever. It jolted open with an angry creak. Water poured down, drenching them before they even saw the cold night sky. The shouts became clear, the harsh voices of the Tinkers barking at one another in mad haste. Llewellyn crawled through the portal, and Chris had to take a deep breath before following him. They were now both soaked in brine; the wind whipped across the deck, chilling him to the bone. And when he saw the cause of the shouts, his blood ran cold. The night was dark, but the lanterns still swung madly on the decks, illuminating the scene.

Two dozen Tinker crew scrambled across the deck; some held axes, some bows. They moved with a hastened precision, like the jammed wheels of a clock all trying to right themselves. With desperation, Chris scanned the deck for a familiar face—Hector and Tory stood on the bridge, back to back. Tory wielded a strange kind of fisher’s javelin, and Hector’s bow drew and fired into the night with speed that made Chris’ head spin. All around, the water roiled and tossed the little bark first one direction and then the other. The sailors all struggled to stay upright. Chris whirled around, trying to find some sign of what they had been fighting, what the cause of the chaos had been.

Then a great, scaled claw reached over the side of the ship. Sharp as a lance, and just as long, it hooked the siding and rocked the ship dangerously sideways. The Tinkers shouted, and Hector turned and crouched, firing at its direction from an angle. Two arrows glanced off the hardened scales, but the third hit, piercing on an angle to crack the scale in two.

A raging shriek echoed through the night, paralyzing Chris. He saw the great claw release its grip.

They paid for it dearly when a gnarled tail whipped over the opposite side of the ship, knocking three Tinkers to the deck and bludgeoning the sidings. Chris whirled and ducked on instinct, but the mass of flesh was gone before he could blink. Cries came to the left and he turned again to find more claws shredding through the metal siding on the stern, and more even further down. It was impossible, as if they fought a multitude of beasts instead of one. Tory’s voice cried out, and he turned back to the upper deck to find the two men faced with their own attack, a large paw clamoring at the rail and shearing through the brass like butter. It was too terrifying to be anything real.

A body smashed him from behind, sending him sprawling. Chris rolled and tried to recover, but the weight was too great; he twisted to find a Tinker sailor clutching his chest. Blood coated Chris, and it was not his own. In the brine that rolled like a small sea across the deck, the red stain widened and washed away, covering Chris’ hands. He looked down in abject horror as the small man saw him and begged, pleaded in his own language, a request indecipherable. He clutched at Chris’ foot, even as the life drained from his eyes.

Adrenaline thundered in Chris’ veins. Tory’s shout brought him round; a second set of claws had joined the first on the bridge.

With cold decision, Chris wrenched his boot free of the dead man’s grasp and rose, grabbing a sword from where it had fallen at the man’s side. He had no idea how to wield it, had no idea what they were fighting or if they would make it out of this alive. But he wouldn’t go down quietly.

He leapt up the steps two at a time, scrambling to reach Tory and Hector. He did not know what had happened to Llewellyn; in the chaos, he couldn’t say if he had clambered for cover or found a weapon as Chris had. But now all his focus centered on his two friends—the man he loved, and the man he admired—fighting with desperation against the unknown.

As he cleared the deck, Hector saw him. “Get back down!” he shouted angrily. Two more arrows flew from his bowstring. “You will get yourself killed!”

Chris shook the droplets from his eyelashes. “No!”

He ran, swung the sword as he had seen the Tinkers do, and landed solidly on the great claw now gaining grip on the deck.

The weapon bounced back with such force, it threw Chris stumbling away. Hector cursed, and Tory turned in surprise. The ship jolted again, forcing Chris’ knees to buckle under the sway. Hector caught him just before he plummeted of the side, blade still swinging wildly. Using the momentum, Hector swung him back round to the fight and threw him with near-uncontrolled force to land with a thud on the deck. Then Hector was back firing arrows.

Tory rushed over, hauling him to his feet with a hand on the nape of his neck. “Under the scales!” he bellowed. “They’re like armor! You have to hit underneath!”

Stunned that Tory would have no objection to him throwing himself pell-mell into a fight with a dragon, Chris took it as encouragement and lifted the sword.

The wind picked up, and the open sail flapped with dangerous zeal above them. They began to accelerate, despite the great weight now holding them down. Inwardly, Chris prayed someone still manned the helm. He hefted the weapon in his hands and ran forward, slicing sideways at the claw that struggled to keep its grip on the siding.

This time his blow landed true. Another shriek met him, oddly satisfying in its horror. He yanked the blade free and swung again.

“Keep going!” Tory’s encouragement came, after twisting his own spear free. “Keep it from getting a hold!”

Chris didn’t have time to ask what would happen if it gained hold, because at that moment, the water broke, and a tidal wave seethed over the edge.

It crashed and battered against the sidings, sweeping the Tinkers below off their feet, and a great armored tail swept the few that remained standing over the side. Chris gasped—the tail was fully fifteen feet long, nearly long enough to hit the mast. He wasn’t sure what the mast was made of, whether it could withstand a blow of such force, but the Tinkers cried out, scrambling for safety. Few made it as the tail returned, swiping back across the mess of a deck and knocked them backwards.

The water to his back roiled and splashed, and Chris whirled—the claws slipped back into the sea; it brought a moment of relief, but only a moment, for a low, rumbling growl emanated from the darkness, and the dragon’s head came into view. Paralyzed with horror, Chris could only stare.

Heavy teal scales lined the length over a long, fish-like snout and wide mouth. Teeth the size of daggers jutted like a shark as it distended its jaw, and a forked tongue darted out, tasting the air for prey. But most unsettling of all, its eyes were like saucers, pale, milky saucers that shone as pearls in the moonlight.

“It is blind!” Tory cried. “Keep silent!”

At the sound, the great serpent’s head twisted, tongue darting and licking the air. Tory’s voice had drawn its attention, and as the man tensed for attack with the fey gleam of battle in his eye, Chris realized it had been intentional. Tory had drawn its rage, and for that, he was now the primary target.

Unwilling to let Tory face such a thing unaided, Chris leapt up, waiting for the attack he knew would come. Below he could still hear the cries of the Tinkers; he realized the dragon must be over fifty feet long, to wrap about the ship so. It terrified him, but he did not drop his weapon.

Then it struck.

Like a serpent, the head darted forward. The edge of its teeth snapped at Tory, who leapt aside just in time. The javelin whirled and stabbed, glancing off the armor-like scales. Arrows from Hector flew past Chris on the right, so close he felt the air move. One lodged in the beast’s neck, but the dragon retracted quickly, pulling their target out of range. The mighty head shifted to the right, then struck again.

Tory stood ready. He leapt, this time to the left. The javelin hit flesh, and the creature howled in fury. Tory’s strike cost him as the beast swept his direction, and he tumbled, catching the edge of a jagged, raw tooth as he fell. It sliced through the flesh on his calf, but he muffled the cry, rolling back and out of the serpent’s vicinity, javelin still in hand.

The dragon’s tongue darted out again, assessing his prey as if unaccustomed to such fight. Hector let another string of arrows fly. It hissed and turned their direction, baring yard-long fangs.

“Here!’ Tory’s voice called again. “Over here, you bastard!”

But the creature was done with him. It hissed and spit, slithering with snake-like grace across the deck to where Chris and Hector stood. Chris clenched his sword, trying not to make a sound. If the thing was blind, it must rely on smell and sound. He only prayed the recent douse of seawater had washed away part of his scent.

Hector was not one to rely on such chance. He strode forward with three arrows knocked. “Give it up, beastie,” he said with a grin.

At his voice, the dragon halted, flaring its nostrils.

Hector let the arrows fly. One ricocheted and clattered useless to the deck; the others pierced the creature’s nostril slits.

It raged in anger. The swing of its head crashed into the railing, denting the metal and shattering the boards. Tory was ready behind it, throwing his javelin with expert skill to skewer the beast’s tongue. A blood-curdling shriek rent the air. It whipped around, slashing at Tory’s undefended midsection.

“NO!” Chris shouted in panic. Before he could think his feet raced forward, and the sword in his hand swung wide at the dragon’s head, the force of adrenaline granting him speed.

The scales cracked. Blood gushed from the wound, dousing Chris in the warm liquid. It splashed in his eyes, and then the full weight of the dragon’s head collided with his chest, throwing him and the sword backwards across the blood-soaked deck. He heard, rather than felt, his head smack the boards. Pain erupted through his skull. The world swam, the stars above blackened like a cold canvas of charred void.

In the dark, a hand gripped his arm. It dragged his body away with slow surety through the thunder and roar. A face swam before his vision, gaunt like a wraith. Then a voice reverberated through his skull.

“Stupid mortals…”

Llewellyn.


	18. Rain

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Multi-chapter update. Be sure to start at Chapter 17 if you followed the update link. :)

 “…Tory,” Chris croaked, shaking his head and trying to rise. “Tory needs—”

A hand pushed him back down, stronger than he thought the boy capable. “You must defend me,” Llewellyn asserted. “Do you understand?”

The words made no sense. But within him, Chris’ heart beat and his blood warmed in reply.

“They do not have a hope without us!” Llewellyn said with sterner command. “You must defend me!”

“I… I will…” Chris heard his own voice answer. An uncertain tremor pervaded it, as if he were feverish. His vision cleared. He saw the darkened deck, the blood stream across it. With nausea, he realized it might be Tory’s blood, or Hector’s. His gaze darted, but he found only the sick glow of lamps and the scrambling Tinkers, hacking the beast’s talons and tail. Llewellyn and he stood on the stairs. The low rumble of the beast’s growl could be heard, above. But when he glanced back to Llewellyn, cold brown eyes pinned him.

“Stand here, and defend me,” he reasserted.

As if some measure of the sidhe’s calm transferred through that gaze, Chris nodded boldly. He felt the grip of the leather-hilted sword Llewellyn placed in his hands. And then the boy closed his eyes.

On command, Chris stood, surveying the surroundings with heightened awareness. He sensed the creak of the boards beneath him, the roil of the sea and the churning of the waves. He heard the screams, but felt no need to run and aid. The image of Tory plowed through by the serpent’s bloody maw rolled over and over in his head. But he did not bound up the stairs; he did not call out. Distantly, Hector’s voice floated down from above, speaking a language he did not understand. He only felt the sure and confident knowledge that he would defend this boy, this sidhe, as he stood unmoving among the chaos. Llewellyn’s eyes remained closed, and lips parted slightly as if in the midst of a pleasant dream.

A jolt knocked them, and he reached out, keeping Llewellyn upright. The sidhe’s brows furrowed, but he did not break concentration. In moments, he returned to peace.

And then Chris noticed a strange thing—the rumble of thunder. The sky had been clear, not a cloud to blot the stars, only minutes ago. And now a sweeping darkness descended upon them, accompanied by a hiss carried on the wind. The little ship jolted and jarred, moving faster. They had found a current, but it carried the battle inexorably down into the pit of a storm.

The wind came first, whipping the sail and slowing their progress. It twined through Chris’ soaked clothing, driving a chill down to his marrow. He shivered in spite of himself, but stood firm. Then the wall of rain came like a ghost out of the night, engulfing their ship in moments.

The sudden deluge pounded Chris’ face, obscuring his vision. The Tinkers below were lost in the blackness, and a river of rainwater gushed down the stairs, threatening to sweep him off his feet. He grabbed the banister for support and caught Llewellyn as the current tossed him roughly. Chris held him close as the fire burned with even greater heat within, a blaze and imperative to keep Llewellyn safe in the midst of the whirlwind. He’d never touched Llewellyn before, or held him. The small form, no matter the sidhe inside, felt fragile, as if a single blow would shatter him. As the boy struggled to find his footing on the slick stairway, Chris clung to the frail body, feeling as though his very survival depended on the other’s.

At last Llewellyn had grasped the banister, and a hand reached out to clutch Chris’ shirt. “Go,” his small voice came through the roar of wind and rain. “Go and fight!”

The fire became a blaze. He did not need to ask where—Chris knew. And as panic and fear surged through his mind, his thoughts crystallized: he knew how to kill the dragon. He left Llewellyn on the stairs and raced upwards to where the great serpent waited.

He did not find it until he was nearly upon them, the curtain of rain obscured everything so. But through the grey wall, he discerned a cloaked figure with daggers drawn, facing the creature head on. Chris doubled his pace, sliding across the slick deck on unsteady feet. At the last moment he crouched, using the momentum to slide, letting it carry him forward towards the gaping jaws of the dragon. In a moment, Hector’s eyes grew wide.

“Chris, no!”

But his blade connected, lodged deep upward into the tender flesh of the dragon’s throat. Blood spurted from the wound, a gushing stream. The creature howled in protest, whipping its head around with a desperate snap, catching the blade and missing Chris’ fingers by inches. He let go of the weapon and tumbled back; the shock broke something in him. The fire faded, and he was staring straight into the milky white eyes of a dragon.

A spear whistled past and pierced the eye through. It exploded like a crushed fruit, spewing fluid. Chris silenced a heave, stumbling back further. The dragon writhed now, thrashing its head in wild throes that rocked the very ship. With a final burst of strength, Chris hit the floor, avoiding the tumbling wood and debris. A strident cry from below made him wince—the dragon’s tail must have taken up the wildness of its head. It slammed into the deck, over and over, until Chris thought he would scream from the frenzied chaos of it.

Just as he was about to curse himself for ever attempting the attack, its thudding fell silent. He turned to find the massive head lying motionless on the battered deck, swept with rain. The remaining eye no longer held madness. Its tongue lolled from the teeth like a spent serpent, and a final, heaving exhale rumbled through its throat.

The great beast was dead.

Then, as if returning from a dream, Chris saw Tory stride through the curtain of rain like a Norse god, sword in hand. He strode up to the mighty head and twisted his javelin free of the skull with harsh yank. Chris winced at the cracking noise it made. Hefting the shaft in his arm, Tory said in gasping, unbroken Latin, “That was foolish, Chris. You could have been killed.”

He couldn’t explain how he had known where to strike, or what madness had driven him. The first time, it had been fear for Tory’s life. The second time… It had been a courage he never thought he possessed.

Hector raced up to him then, cutting the small line of connection between Tory and himself. “Chris! Chris!” he cried. “Where is Ari!”

It came back to him then, the moment on the steps, when Llewellyn had pulled him from the battle and commanded him. When the boy had stood, small but calm, like the eye of the storm itself. “On… On the stairs…” Hector rose, but Chris grasped his sleeve, tethering him. “He told me to fight!” Chris whispered in confused wonder. “He told me to fight and I did it… I don’t know how…”

A glimmer of understanding flashed through Hector’s eye. But he did not answer, tearing his sleeve from Chris’ grasp and moving with unnatural grace across the debris-strewn deck to the lower level.

Then Tory was at his side, replacing the cold presence with concerned warmth. “Are you hurt?” he asked, laying a hand on his shoulder. “What the hell were you thinking?”

Chris shook his head, trying to clear the lingering haze. “No, I’m… I’m okay… I thought…” The aftereffects of shock were beginning to hit him. “I thought you were dead,” he said breathlessly.

A small smile warmed his face. “Not yet. That was some hit you landed. You must have severed a vein… The only reason I got a clear shot was because of you.”

Chris wanted to believe he had done it of his own courage, his own fight or flight instinct. But doubt poisoned his pride. In the end, he was only glad the beast was dead.

“Come on,” Tory murmured, wrapping an arm under his shoulders. “Let’s get you up.”

As he rose, Chris realized the rain had softened. Now just a small drizzle, it coated their skin, washing away the heat and sweat of battle. The heady scent of wet leather filled his nose, engulfed in Tory’s hold. But he had only a moment to savor it, because Captain Nantuk, Howie and a handful of other Puck-Woad were coming up the opposite stair.

On instinct, Tory’s hold around him tightened. Captain Nantuk made directly for them. His booming voice rent the darkness, and only belatedly Howie remembered to translate.

“Many thanks, gentlemen! Who was it that slew the dragon?”

Tory shifted uncomfortably. “I did, with the help of him,” he nodded to Chris.

Nantuk bowed in respect when he heard the words. “That is no small feat. Four of my own men are dead, and many wounded. Have you lost any?”

Tory glanced down to Chris, who shook his head.

“I do not believe so,” Tory answered. “Our third was up here moments ago, and I do not think the boy came on deck.”

Chris opened his mouth to correct him, but Tory’s arm tightened, a warning to be silent.

Howie returned the captain’s words: “Then we were fortunate in skill. This is the greatest drake I have seen in my life.” He looked down at the head, and the single milky eye now expired. “She was an ancient one. Why she chose to attack us, I do not know.”

An unsettled thought crossed Chris’ mind—if they had been the cause of this, somehow. If Llewellyn had been the cause. The boy’s uncanny ability to detect what the beast was, through solid metal walls and in the dark of the night, was a question that would need answered. But now, all he could think were the four dead Tinkers, the man who had died while clutching his boot in fear. The others may be safe, but it was at a high price. And if Llewellyn was responsible for it, Chris was fairly certain he would punch him, sidhe or not.

Howie’s voice cut through his brooding thoughts.

“We will gain what we can from the beast then push it over the side.”

Tory cast a sorrowful gaze on the mauled snout. “She was a beautiful creature. It seems unfitting to just let her drift in the river.”

Howie shook her head, answering before Captain Nantuk had a chance. “It is where she was born, and where she died. She will feed others. She will not go to waste.”

Chris had to agree, it was sad. But he didn’t know what else they might do. The Tinkers began clearing the debris, shuffling what could not be salvaged over the side. A pair of them went to the siding, assessing for damage.

Tory’s low voice met his ear, even as he watched. “You are lucky to be alive,” he said quietly. “We all are. That is what matters.”

Chris grimaced. “Maybe… I just can’t shake the feeling this was our fault.”

Tory’s sad eyes surveyed the great beast, now just dead weight holding them down. “Perhaps it was. All the more reason to help while we can.”

Chris nodded. In a fleeting moment, he tightened his grip around Tory’s waist—a small reassurance that brought back a flood of memories of how they used to be. It was a comfort, however fleeting, in the chaos of a world that had just changed so dramatically. He was staring at a dragon. A dragon, something straight from the pages of myth. And his thane, his knight, had vanquished a beast worthy of legend.


	19. Lie to Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chris wades through the aftermath.

The ship had been thrashed by the battle, but thankfully, nothing essential was damaged beyond repair. Over the next two hours, Chris hauled wood and pieces of scrap, throwing them either over the side or in the bin Howie ordained. The Tinkers seemed certain they could recycle the metal, and a handful of them were already hard at work with tools to bend the railings and sidings back into place, everywhere but the high deck where the dragon’s head still lay.

That was another matter entirely. Two sailors with great, long beards spackled with grime took on the task of dismantling the dragon. They used knives and shovels to pry the scales up, then plunked them, whole, into a large chest Howie brought round. Another woman joined them, sawing the teeth from the massive jowl with concentrated effort. In under an hour, the beast was beginning to look more like a carcass than the grand and terrifying monster they had faced. It made nausea roll through Chris’ stomach, augmented by the pounding in his head, which had come back in full force after the adrenaline of the fight wore off. As he bent down to pick up another shredded piece of banister, Tory caught his grimace.

“Perhaps you should go see the boy,” he recommended, helping him lift and hefting the piece onto his own shoulder.

It took him a second to realize he meant Llewellyn. “Why… Why Ari?” he grunted, shoving a large twine of rope out the way.

Tory did not immediately answer. Instead, he frowned as if being questioned dampened his resolve. “I just have a feeling, is all.” He turned and walked back to the group of Tinkers at the mast.

A spark of rebellion flitted through Chris; he hadn’t seen Hector or the sidhe since the end of the battle. He was certain Llewellyn was safe—Hector would have come running, if not. But he wasn’t sure he wanted to face them, after what had happened on the stairs.

In the end, the pounding in his head was too great to ignore. After nearly collapsing under another sheet of scrap, he wearily shrugged it off and headed toward the hatch.

Water had washed through below-decks. Chris found himself wading ankle-deep in a sloshing stream rushing first to one end of the ship and then the other as the vessel rocked and swayed in the current. He clung to the running pipes as he walked, trying to stay upright. At the end of the hallway, he saw the warmth of light from the cargo door.

He tried to approach quietly, though the splash of water made it difficult. When he reached the doorframe, he saw Hector and Llewellyn huddled together, close in conversation. The lip of the door seemed to have saved the room from the worst of the water, and their packs had been stacked together to form a barricade around their bedding.

Hector glanced up the moment he appeared. “Chris!”

He ducked and stepped through. “We wondered about you. The Tinkers are putting the ship back together as much as they can. And gutting the dragon,” he added with wonder. “I didn’t know dragon scales were so valuable.”

Llewellyn confirmed his statement. “They are used in armor and building structure. As you saw, they are quite tough.”

Chris’ shoulders slumped, and his feet suddenly felt cold, out of the water. “Nantuk… He says we will be to Attuket tomorrow afternoon.”

“That is good,” Hector agreed. “The storm seems to have given us a boost of power we otherwise would not have. It was lucky for us, too—rain muted the dragon’s senses. I do not know if we would have won, had the night stayed clear.”

Llewellyn’s face remained calm, but Chris thought he caught a glimpse of triumph flash through his eyes; like a spark, and then it was gone.

“Yeah… Lucky,” he said uneasily. Then he remembered the reason he had come. “Llew… Ari,” he corrected himself. “I hit my head during the fight. Viator said you might be able to help.”

To his surprise, Llewellyn did not blink. “Give me a moment.” He walked over to the canvas bags in the corner and began to rummage. Thinking the pair had been clever enough to pack pain medication, he almost laughed at himself—all these strange events were getting to him, if he thought Llewellyn could cure a headache with a wave of his hand.

Chris’ smile dropped when the boy produced a small leather satchel filled with wide, oak-like leaves.

“Hold on a second,” he stepped back. “You’re not going to… magic me, are you?”

Llewellyn frowned. “This is what we use here. If you would rather continue with a pounding head, that is your choice.”

Chris still hesitated.

Hector stepped in. “It’s not magic, Chris. You forget your own medicines are made of the same stuff. Just more refined. There are different plants here, but the effect is the same.”

Doubt washed through him, but after another shot of pain through his skull, he accepted the situation. He joined Llewellyn by the bags and sat—collapsed—with one at his back. “I thought the Puck-Woad were strange…”

If Llewellyn took offense, he did not acknowledge it. He merely wrapped the leaves in a bundle, tore them in half, and handed one section to Chris. “Eat this,” he ordered. “The rest goes on your wound.”

Chris plucked the now pungent leaves from his outstretched hand, eyeing them with suspicion. A thick scent, tinged with mint, seeped into the air. The leaves looked oddly familiar. “…Is this mistletoe?”

Llewellyn nodded. “It is of the same family. Tulioc, we call it.”

Chris frowned. “Mistletoe is poisonous, you know.”

“But tulioc is not.” He was running out of patience. “Eat it.”

With a bit of apprehension, Chris stuffed the leaves in his mouth. Bitter juice rolled over his tongue, trickling down his throat. He suppressed a cough, then forced the fibrous chunk of plant down his throat. It wasn’t as bad, when he finished, and a soothing sort of numbness spread from his chest into his limbs.

Llewellyn placed the other section in his hand. “Now hold that on your head until you cannot. I am going to do what I can on deck.”

As he stepped to the door, something occurred to Chris. “Wait… How did you keep the leaves fresh, all this time?”

With an acerbic frown, Llewellyn answered: “Magic.” And then he disappeared out the door.

Hector moved, sealing the canvas pack that had been left open. “I best get back on deck, as well. If you feel nauseous, call out. Someone will hear you.” The usual careless tone in his voice was gone; in its place, an edge of steel warned caution. Chris had seen this man in the heat of battle, face to face with a dragon, taunting it with a smile. There was more to Hector than Chris had thought. More to all of them.

“Hector…” he said quietly.

A glare made him pause.

“ _Titus_ ,” he said with more emphasis. It was another answer he would need, why Hector insisted on going by false names in the company of those who had proven their honesty twice over. But that was not what he needed now. “When we were fighting… When I fell. Llewellyn came and pulled me away. He… did something,” he said. “He spoke to me, and… I did things. I obeyed him.”

Hector’s expression remained calm. “Did it help you in the battle?”

Unwilling to admit the truth, he hesitated. “Well… Yes, but—”

“Then whatever happened, it was a blessing, not a curse. Take it as such. And do not speak of it more. We have already betrayed more to our enemies than is wise.”

His brows furrowed. “Our enemies?”

Hector’s voice lowered, and he crouched at Chris’ side. “What do you think the Puck-Woad would do, if they discovered Ari’s nature?” His jaw clenched, and his muscles tensed as if already anticipating a blow. “They would blame us for the dragon. They would call him a curse and throw him overboard. Us along with him.”

“ _Are_ we to blame for the dragon?” Chris wondered aloud. It was a dangerous question, but he had to know.

Hector’s lips pressed, and he looked ready to debate the point. Then his shoulders relaxed, and that Cheshire smile spread across his face. “Now that would be something,” he smirked. “…Summoning a sea drake.”

It did not answer the question. But Hector was already rising, making for the door. “Remember to call out if you feel a change for the worse. I’m sure Howie will be down soon enough to assess the damage.” He reached the doorframe. “Oh, excuse me,” he added loudly.

Chris glanced up—Hector had run into the very Tinker they spoke of at the doorway. Jovially Hector explained, “Chris is resting. The drake knocked his head.”

“Oh, not to worry,” Howie's cheerful voice bounced off the walls as she slipped past. “I won’t be quicker than a rutting rabbit.”

Chris laughed.

“See?” she said with charm to Hector’s shadow down the hall. “I am good for him! Laughter makes all wounds heal!”

No response came. It hardly dampened her spirits, though, as she turned and looked the room up and down. She did not seem worse for wear after all that had happened. Her clothing was a bit torn, and soaked through as everyone else, but it did nothing to dim her smile. “Perfect,” she said happily, seeing the walls intact and the water level low. “We took right less damage than we should have, with a beast that size. The floaters aren’t even damaged!”

Chris mentally shifted back into his Latin, and formulated the words precisely: “Floaters?”

“Oh, I did forget,” she said easily. “This is your first voyage on a kettle.”

He wanted to snap back that in his world, this would be a derelict disaster, but refrained. Instead, he swallowed his pride and nodded. “How does it go? No sails, no oars…”

She stepped to his side, just as Hector had moments ago. But her glow warmed Chris like a healing balm. “No, the oars are inside,” she said proudly. “A great Puck-Woad creation. You see,” she settled in next to him like a long-lost friend, “Inside the ship, we have floaters,” she made a gesture like a donut, “and through the center is a hollow channel with rotating oars—clockwork, you know. The current flows through the channel, and we either ride it, the way we are now traveling downstream, or we shift it the other way, backwards,” she made a sweeping motion in a circle. “You fey live willy-nilly, like the elements are bigger than you. We are smarter. We harness them, and so we are the big ones. We make the rules,” she beamed.

“But…” He tried to formulate the words, and speak as Tory had, fluid and unbroken. “…What happens in a storm, when currents go… willy-nilly?” he used the phrase she had.

“We adjust,” she replied. “It is all about adjusting. Wind goes this way, you adjust the sail. Current goes that way, you adjust the channel. It can be slow, sometimes,” she admitted. “But better than a rowboat, fighting the waves from above.”

It was starting to make sense. The Tinkers were ingenious, really. He hoped he would get a chance to see a vessel out of the water, someday. He’d love to go poking around, explore how it all fit together. The wound on his head made a tour unlikely, now; the last thing he needed was to get knocked by a busy Tinker into clockwork oars or over the side. Not to mention all the work that was still to be done.

“You are not a man of Quintos.”

Howie’s voice cut through his thoughts. It was an accusation, but her tone made it seem more an invitation. Chris stumbled. “I… Why do you think that?”

She shrugged, inspecting her boot. “You speak funny, is all. The others do not notice, but it is my job to know how the world says things. You use strange words, and say them oddly.”

Knowing he was caught, Chris tried to bail himself out. Putting on his best British accent, he tried, “How about this? Do you understand me?”

Her eyes brightened. “Oh yes!” she responded in kind. “That is the language of the big folk!” She mimed carrying a heavy weapon, and a long beard. “They are mean and nasty, when they come.”

It brought a laugh from Chris. “Yes, just so,” he smiled.

Her smile broadened, too. “It is good to hear you laugh. You are all so solemn,” she added. “Like you do not want to be where you are. And your captain—him especially.”

The insight was surprising in a woman who seemed intent on playing the jester. “Things are not going as we planned,” he said diplomatically, while still conceding the point. “He… Captain Viator, did not plan to be here.”

Sympathy softened her features. “He is a brave man.”

“Yes,” Chris sighed. “Yes he is.” A longing rose in him—the longing that had plagued him these last two days, after the truth had come and destroyed his hope. Pulled in two directions, Chris could not rightly say which was best. It overwhelmed him.

She saw the sadness in his eye, saw the pain and sorrow. With a pat on the knee, she encouraged, “Do not worry. Everything will come out just fine. I will see to it.”

“I do not think this is a thing you can fix with Tinker cleverness.”

Her smile widened. “Oh, you will see. But do not faint before I do,” she admonished, rising to her feet. “There is still lots of work to be done.”

Before he could ask whether she meant her plan or the ship, she was out the door.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title: [Lie to Me](https://youtu.be/4Y7uBk3BoAg) by Breaking Benjamin.


	20. What is Taken to be True

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Multi-chapter update. Be sure to start at Chapter 17 if you followed the update link. :)

The work continued up on deck, and in no time the ship had been cleared for operation again. Chris felt a pang of sadness, watching the great dragon’s now skinned carcass slip into the devouring waves. He doubted he would ever again see something so majestic, or so deadly. Remembering the terror of facing those jaws reminded him how lucky they all were to be alive. Better the dragon’s carcass than their own.

Once the vessel was underway once more, Howie remained their constant companion, both above deck and below. Either she had been assigned to them, or she was the only Tinker aboard who knew any Latin, because it was always her voice echoing down the hallway to greet them. The battle did little to dampen her spirits, and she wore a constant smirk of curiosity, poking and prodding Tory about everything from his swordsmanship to their shipwreck on the island. Chris felt sorry for him, being caught in her unwitting test of their lies, and he tried to call Tory’s attention away when he could.

After the first night, Tory seemed unsettled. He’d glance over at Llewellyn every now and then as if he could feel the sidhe’s dark eyes peering at him beneath the shock of hair. Chris had thought Llewellyn’s haircut would stick out like a sore thumb here, but Howie’s own hair was in a constant state of disarray, too, in what he would have called a punk pixie, back in his world. But hers didn’t look to have any kind of gel to make it stick out at odd angles; it just did. It added a wild edge to her already fantastically large, pointed ears and wide eyes.

At last, after what felt to Chris like an eternity, Howie poked her head through the door. “Attuket is on the horizon! You may come on deck.”

Nervous excitement spiked Chris’ veins, and he rose to join the others at the door.

“Now, no getting in the way of the crew,” she warned sternly. “Docking is dangerous enough without clods mucking up the work. Oh!” she peaked. “And captain wants to speak with Viator in his cabin, before we make berth.”

Tory looked startled, but nodded easily. “Of course.”

As if on impulse, Llewellyn stepped to his side. “I will come too.”

Howie gave him a surprised once-over.

And Tory countered, “No need, little Ari. There are more interesting things to see on deck.”

Chris tried not to visibly grimace at the diminutive epithet; Llewellyn’s gaze turned to ice. “Yes, captain,” he bit.

Chris took a deep breath—he knew Tory might well pay for that remark later. For all Llewellyn’s young appearance and quiet voice, Chris doubted Tory would win a battle with the sidhe, if it came to it. And yet, Tory’s easy and commanding demesne played without a hitch. He strode with bold purpose out behind Howie, not even glancing back to the others.

....

All thoughts of Llewellyn were driven to the back of his mind when they stepped out onto the deck. On the horizon, a black smear of forested land approached; Chris stepped to the railing beside the others and beheld the ancient settlement of the Puck-Woad Tinkers.

The harbor was the first to come into view; beautifully crafted metal docks, like the bridge had been, only newer and less corroded. The spanning structure stretched for hundreds of feet along the shore, housing kettle boats of varying sizes. Some of them were long, deep tankers, and some were barely longer than the lifeboat they rode in earlier. All the ships had a sail of some sort dyed in reds or and browns; some were plain canvas as theirs had been. Across the docks, a handful of Puck-Woad strode with individual purpose; their gait rushed short and clipped, as if their destination was of utmost importance, and no one stood loitering.

Past the docks, a great wall rose. It seemed… odd, to Chris. Stone, but not constructed of the usual medley of bricks. Like a single, unbroken rock polished smooth, it stretched out in a band around the little city, curved slightly outward. It rose over thirty feet high, and at the top, Chris could barely see the movement of patrolmen moving with even pace back and forth, like measured steps of the British Guard. And beyond the wall, through the massive iron gates at the heart of the harbor, Chris caught a glimpse of small, two story buildings glinting in the afternoon light.

“Attuket.” Hector had come up beside to him, surveying the port with an air of calm determination. “We will find safety here. Follow me when we dock, and do not speak.”

At the moment, Chris didn’t find that a problem. He was still in speechless awe.

Unexpected, Tory stepped to his side has he passed, and grabbed Chris' arm. “ _No derelinquas me sine,_ " he asked lowly. And then he turned, following Howie down the steps to the captain’s cabin.

_Do not leave without me._

A chill settled down Chris’ spine—he glanced to Hector, who stood quietly, eyeing the harbor with passive interest. The thought that the others might have alternate plans, might leave Tory behind, had not occurred to him.

He turned back to the harbor, trying to mask his apprehension.

“We will not leave him, Chris.”

The sudden closeness of Hector’s voice, low and gentle, made him start. Chris turned to find an easy smile on the man’s face; he’d come to stand beside him in camaraderie. 

Leaning in, Hector qualified, "Not until you are ready.”

A knot of nervous uncertainty turned in Chris’ stomach. The words were casual, but carried a deeper current that washed through Chris to his core. He clutched the railing in uncertainty. 

The choice Hector implied was clear.

....

Captain Nantuk was a grizzled old man. Those who spent years at sea often came home more weathered than they rightly should be, worn by the sun and salt spray, and Unseelie attacks that came more often than not. There was something in the woods here, something that made them almost mad, and overly bold, which he’d heard was not usual in other places of the world.

Nantuk did not know. He’d been born here in Attuket, raised on the shore, and took to the sea as soon as he could. The restlessness of the wilderness gave him a wild edge, a hard edge that was necessary for those who sailed the channels and rivers in between the few Puck-Woad settlements that dotted the coast. There were others who took their expeditions upriver, to the brighter woods of Quintos or south to their wild, raucous cousins on the peninsula. But Nantuk preferred the dark and solitary wilds of his own people and all the wonders abounding right on their own front door. For years he had run the haul north to Mispegon, then returning with an empty hull. Not for lack of want; but the Attuket traders were distrustful of things gotten outside their own city walls, and in the end, it was more profitable simply to return home and go again than bring back dozens of wares no one would buy. The world was wild, but the wildness was its consistency.

Then came four strangers, sentient fey, appearing out of the mist like ghosts. Wanting no trouble, no outlandish requests or the usual fey desire to argue over passage rights. They had asked nothing of him, save rescue. They were quiet, unassuming and altogether civilized.

It was unusual. And around here, unusual meant trouble.

Which is why, though they pulled into port this very moment, he wanted a word with their captain. The harbormaster would never let him hear the end if he brought thieves or vagabonds into port. He intended to ferret any trouble out before landing.

The door opened quietly, and the young translator Howie stepped through, followed by a very large, very graceful Captain Viator. The man was impressive, Nantuk gave him that. He had all the airs a captain should have—calm, reserved but genial. That charisma was why he had let the strangers stay, during that first meeting. A captain who could hold the loyalty of his crew after such a tragedy was to be commended. Especially from the other tall one; Titus, they had called him. Nantuk knew the glint of a second in command who thinks himself worthy of more. Titus was a hungry man, and not altogether settled with the current state of things. He was an unruly tree that refused to grow any way but that which he had chosen. The Puck-Woad knew what to do with such trees: they were burned as fuel to maintain other life.

Howie strode up to him gaily. “Salute, Captain. I’ve brought the passenger you requested.”

Nantuk nodded. Viator stood quietly, waiting.

“Ask him what he and his crew intend to do once we make port,” he instructed.

Howie translated, and the confidence on Viator’s visage did not falter. He uttered a string of melodious, slurred chatter, and Howie explained,

“He and his crew will find a tavern and recollect themselves. He does not know yet whether they will return south or attempt to continue north.”

Nantuk frowned. “And does he have means to pay for passage on a ship?”

She asked in his stead. Viator returned Nantuk’s frown with one of his own.

“He says, they have minimal goods left, but he’d be willing to trade with us, should we ask for payment for their rescue.” Glancing over her shoulder, she added, “He seems offended by the question.”

Nantuk nodded. “Any honorable man would be. But we must ensure they will not fall to thieving or ill-endeavors once they go ashore.”

Howie translated.

Viator nodded. “ _Vir bonus tuetur civitatem._ ”

“He says, it is a good man that will protect his city.”

With a snort, Nantuk replied, “I protect my skin, and the skins of my crew. We cannot bring trouble into Attuket without being seen as the cause of the trouble ourselves.”

At that Howie paused. In Puck-Woad, she asked, “Do you believe them to be trouble, Captain?”

He stroked his beard thoughtfully, eyeing Viator with candid appraisal. “I do not think trouble will come from him. But that Titus… He has an ill-favored look.”

When he heard the translation, Captain Viator’s brows furrowed. He did not immediately answer, as if testing the words before he spoke them. At last, he nodded. “I have had my eye on him as well, through our journey. He is cunning, but pursues a thing greater than himself. I do not fear he will bring trouble to your streets during our stay. He values the boy—Ari—too greatly.”

Nantuk heard these words, and his esteem for this strange captain rose. That he would recognize the threat, but contain it, spoke many things about him. He had the spirit of a Tinker: they harnessed the elements instead of being controlled by them. The few fey he had met in the past were always wanton things, throwing themselves at the mercy of the world and sea. They believed it to be a force incomprehensible, and so worshipped it, in their way. This man at least seemed to have a good head on his shoulders. “It is well,” Nantuk said with finality. “We will make port, and you may go any way you see fit. May you never meet the impossible,” he bowed.

When the words had been translated, Captain Viator returned the bow. “And may you never lose the stars,” he answered courteously.

As he turned to leave, Nantuk could not help but notice the look of concern knit on his brow.

....

Relief washed over Chris when he saw Tory emerge from the captain’s cabin, looking troubled, but none the worse for wear. He descended the steps thoughtfully. Chris walked up to him, giving his best effort at a genuine smile.

Tory saw him and returned the warmth. “We are free to leave,” he said succinctly.

A second wave of relief imbued Chris, bringing a waning hope back to kindle. Soon they’d be off this ship and in the heart of a new city.

And, best of all, he might even be allowed to talk again.

 


	21. Behind Closed Doors

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Finally on land.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title taken from [Behind Closed Doors](https://youtu.be/TOrzcFg7BaI) by Rise Against.

Debarking from the ship proved easier than expected—once the kettle pulled into port and moored, the siding of the skiff lowered, and they debarked with the rest of the crew.

Tory led them with calm authority down the iron and stone docks, and through the gates. With every step, Chris felt bolder. It felt good to have solid land beneath his feet, and fresh air in his lungs. What had begun as a very simple matter of getting across the channel had turned into a complex fall down the rabbit hole, and he was eager to be back on their way.

Tory inquired about lodgings with the nearest guardsman, and they were directed down the main street into the city.

As they walked, Chris had to do his best not to gape at the surreal surroundings. Buildings all lined up perfectly down the edge of a road paved with the same odd grey stone the walls were constructed of, smooth and unbroken. Almost like pavement, he thought, but this had the feel of polished marble. He soon learned his sample of Tinkers on the ship had been limited: there was such a variety of clothing, hair and weaponry, it was hard to imagine they all came from the same place. Some, mostly older men, wore embroidered coats of a variety of flashy but solid colors, and great, long beards. Others—mostly younger women, by the look—wore complicated leatherwork lined with pouches and trinkets of varying usefulness. One woman actually had a spoon sown into her blouse. Whatever was metal, and shiny, it was used as decoration. Storefronts, wagons, and children were decked with gild.

At last Tory stopped in front of a little store with the sign of a large hammer wielded by a drunk-looking Tinker hang in from the threshold. “Here is our stop,” he said with fake cheerfulness.

Hector eyed it with distrust, and turned to Llewellyn.

After a moment, “Yes, this will do,” the boy confirmed.

And so they entered the Drunken Forgemaster.

....

Getting a room proved to be easy. Tory walked up to the counter, spoke briefly and with many gestures to the attending barman, and then turned with a nod.

“We have a room on the third floor,” he said in Latin. “An end room.”

That seemed to please Llewellyn, and he eagerly shouldered his pack to follow Tory up thick wooden steps at the far end of the room. Several guests at the bar turned as they walked past, eyeing them curiously then turning to mutter with shaking heads. Apparently they were a bit of a curiosity.

Their room was small. One bed sat up against the wall, covered in a worn quilt of intricately-patterned lacework and a bedpost of faded brass. There were no windows, and only a single small table with a wash bin on top. No pictures broke the dark timber of the walls. Overall, it reminded Chris of the ship’s hull: stuffy and unwelcoming.

Once the door shut and bolted, all breathed an exhale.

“Well,” Tory said quietly. “Here we are. I hope you’re happy.”

Hector’s eyes narrowed, as if he had expected this. “You did well, Tory, and for that I thank you. Do not tarnish it now.”

“You led us into a death trap, then a charade where you relied on everyone else to hold the line,” he snarled back. “Don’t patronize me. When exactly were you going to tell us you were wanted men?”

The question hung in the air; neither Hector nor Llewellyn seemed keen to answer.

“Because that’s what I don’t get,” Tory continued acerbically. “You are of Elram by your talk, and that is over a thousand miles from here. The Puck-Woad don’t even acknowledge a leader among the fey. So why would your names be dangerous here, unless you had done something so terrible even they would know it?”

“It is not the Puck-Woad we fear,” Llewellyn said in calm response. “And it is not immediate apprehension that is the danger.” He glanced to Hector. “We have gone to great lengths to disguise our trail from those that would hunt us, and we do not wish to leave more tracks than absolutely necessary.”

The statement struck Chris. “But who are you running from? Why the secrecy?”

Hector spoke then, quiet, but with an edge of bitterness that pierced the silent air with clarity. “Do you remember the story I told you, Chris? About the knight and the evil queen?”

Calling that night back from what seemed an age ago, Chris’ brows furrowed. “I… Yes, but—”

“It was real, Chris. Every word.”

“You… You were a knight?”

“Not just a knight,” Hector answered. “I was her journeying knight—her favorite, both on the battlefield and in her chamber. The Queen Loraine, sovereign of Elram.”

The words only held face-value to Chris, but Tory’s brow shot up. “ _You_ served the Queen of Elram?”

A weary smile. “I know I do not look it, Master Rask. But I can hold my own among the great. And my accomplishments caught her eye.”

“Yeah,” Tory said sardonically. “I’m sure it was your _accomplishments_.”

“Think what you will, but the truth remains.”

“What happened?” Chris asked intently. He didn't care about such nuances.

“I served her. I followed her commands. She brought me into her confidence. But the more I saw, the more I grew to question her integrity.”

“You bed a superior officer and _then_ question her integrity.”

Chris and Hector both looked at Tory with angry glares, then. Tory just shrugged, retreating to sit back on the bed with an air of defeated frustration.

“She was not born with magic,” Hector continued. “Not like Llewellyn, who wields it innately. We fey do not have the ability for such things, not like our ancestors, or the sidhe, who are born wielding power whether they wish it or not.” He glanced to Llewellyn, then turned his clear, sharp gaze back to those before him. “It took time, effort, for Loraine to unlock the secrets of the world. But she applied herself to the task with studious effort. She became a sorceress. And in that, she found her corruption. Every new discovery propelled her further down the path. Soon it was not only protection she sought, but domination. And Llewellyn became her first victim.”

Surprised, Chris turned. The boy’s mask of indifference had hardened to hate. “Why him?”

“Isn’t it obvious?” Tory intruded.

“Not as apparent as you might guess, Master Rask. She turned on him in spite because he is her brother.”

Tory’s eyes widened.

Chris did a double-take, as well. “But that means he’s—”

“A prince of Elram,” Hector nodded. “She trapped and bound him in a hex, while he was yet a child. Her magic prevented him from growing to his full stature, from unlocking his true _power_ , and so prevented any threat to her sovereign rule. Six hundred years she kept him imprisoned, until a single misstep revealed his presence to me.”

Chris’ eyes widened in a knee-jerk reaction. “Six _hundred_ years? How is that even possible?”

Hector’s mouth pressed in a thin frown. “We are immortal, Chris. Unless slain violently, our bodies just… continue. And her hex stopped him growing, maturing. She could have kept Llewellyn imprisoned as a child for millennia, had none come to his aid.”

The weight of the situation settled on Chris’ shoulders like a wet cloak.

“But why would it matter, Llewellyn’s name, here in the wild?” Tory asked curiously. “Surely you don’t think she’ll find you out here in the sticks? She’d be mad to send her knights out here, even if he is a sidhe. _Especially_ if he’s a sidhe,” he added.

“We do not fear her knights,” Llewellyn snapped. “We have outwitted them a dozen times.”

“It is her scouts we defend against,” Hector agreed. “Fey she may be, but she will not easily forget her younger brother escaped her traps, and is free to roam the world. It will haunt her until he is back in her care, and only then will she turn her mind.”

“If you’re worried about a paper trail,” Tory noted, “You should have stayed back in New York City. Nowhere safer.”

His stance tensed. “We are not running to ground like a pair of hunted rabbits.”

“You mean like I did?” Tory said dangerously. “You think I'm a coward.”

“I know you are a coward,” Hector countered with venom. “It is merely the circumstance I have yet to discover.”

“Gentlemen.” Llewellyn’s firm voice cut through the strife.

All turned to look at him.

“I believe our antics have attracted unwanted attention.”

Hector’s brow shot up.

With quiet clarity, he stated, “There is someone listening on the other side of the door.”

....

Shock flitted through Chris like a spider. He glanced to Hector, whose face had gone stern. He eyed the door with focused precision, as if he expected whoever hid behind it to come stepping through with an apology.

They did not. Chris couldn’t help the fear that seized his chest and constricted his throat; if they were caught, with everything that Hector had told him, it might well mean their deaths. Unbidden, images of knights in armor—the Queen’s knights, tramping through the door to cut them down where they stood—ran rampant through his mind.

Tory was not so affected. He strode up and with bold purpose opened the little wooden door.

Howie smiled up at him with unapologetic pleasure. “So you gents are on an adventure?” she said in accented English.

Without ceremony, Tory grabbed Howie by the collar and lifted her into the room, shutting the door definitely behind them. He plunked her down in the middle, surrounded by the others. The Tinker’s smile did not wane.

“I knew you were up to something,” she explained. “From the moment we plucked you from the water. I tried to tell Captain Nantuk, but he thinks me… _overimaginative_.” She looked from one face to the next. “I would tell him I was right, but I doubt he’d believe me. He is a bit hard in the head, that one.”

Hector did not have the patience to deal with her delineation. “What did you hear then, and what do you intend to do about it?”

She scuffed the floor with her boot, like a child asked to wait by their nursemaid. “Oh, I heard the four of you speaking Elram. That is of great interest, since you insisted on using the language of Quintos during your passage on the ship.”

“And what did you hear?” Hector growled.

She shrugged. “You are wanted by the Sovereign Queen of Elram, you and the prince. I do not know how the others factor in. You were a bit vague on that part.”

Her tone was so light, so casual, Chris had to stifle a huff of amusement.

“As for what I intend to do…” She continued, “I suppose I plan to come with you.”

Chris couldn’t help it—he covered his mouth to hide a small smile.

Hector’s dark brows furrowed. The same intense, scrutinizing gaze Chris recognized from their first meeting lit his eyes, surveying Howie up and down as if measuring her worth. “And what makes you think we will allow you? Why not kill you now, and spare ourselves the trouble?” Calm, even, and cold—even Chris shifted a bit, uncertain if Hector meant it.

Howie did not care. “If you kill me now, you will have a dead body to drag out under the eyes of the innkeeper and all the patrons. If you are that foolish, I do not want to come with you anyway.”

Hector frowned, but it was with a nod. “Why _do_ you want to accompany us?”

“For the adventure!” she beamed. “I work that stupid kettle, for a captain that thinks me silly. I am quick and quiet, when I need to be…” She turned a frown on Llewellyn. “Most people cannot hear me, when I sneak. You are strange.”

Llewellyn took this affront with levity. “It is my skill, to hear those who wish to be hidden.”

Her frown was unimpressed. “For a hexed boy, you are not very scary.”

A ghost of a smile crossed Llewellyn’s lips. “And for a translator, you are terrible at nuance.”

Her lips quirked, as if unsure what to make of it. She gave up and turned back to Hector. “You will need me, you know. You will come upon a moment, and think, ‘I wish I had been nice to Howie.’ But you were not, and I will be dead in an alley. What will you do then?”

So sure in her logic was she, that Chris almost believed her. For this first time, his voice rose to join hers. “Why not, Hector? She’s right—leaving her behind will only leave the trail you have tried all along to avoid. I bet she has a fair knowledge of the territory, too.”

“Wait…” Tory’s deep voice rumbled from where he stood behind her. “You all cannot seriously be considering this?” His eyes flitted from Chris, to Hector, to Llewellyn with disbelief. “You’ve already put us on a track to get ourselves killed. You can’t in good conscience let her join!”

Hector’s hand came to his chin. “She seems to have taken that chance already, when she chose to present herself. If the Puck-Woad wants to come, I say we let her.” He looked to Llewellyn. “Is that well by you?”

He only took a moment of consideration. “Yes, I believe it will be useful.”

“Then it is settled!” Howie peeped happily. A thought occurred to her, and she looked to Tory. “Unless you really are their captain. In which case, I am sorry. They are a sad lot.”

Chris couldn’t help a smile. For all her stature, she was bolder than he could ever be.

Tory’ shoulders slumped. “Do you know where we are going?”

“Nope, and I do not care,” she answered.

“We are in search of monsters—dark, dangerous Unseelie beasts that will gut all of us where we stand.”

“Now, that's a little dramatic,” Chris interjected.

Tory’s clear eyes pinned him in dangerous seriousness. "It's not. It is unlikely any of us will live through this.” He glanced back down at Howie. “Do you really want to take that risk? Not just death, but pain—lots of pain. You will scream for mercy, but they will not grant it.”

An involuntary chill shot through Chris at his words; the gravity and weight of them suddenly became very real, and for a split-second, he imagined himself in Howie’s place, with Tory’s calm but stern voice washing over him, giving him the choice. Even knowing all he did, in her shoes, Chris wasn’t sure he would say yes.

The solemnity of the moment was lost on Howie. “I am a crazy Tinker. Too much stuff in the heart,” she patted her chest. “The others all think me useless. I will die either way—I am too foolhardy. I want to have adventure before I do. I am not afraid of pain, if it means leaving these mutton-heads behind,” she gestured to the door, and the patrons downstairs.

Tory sighed. “Then I can’t stop you, Howie. I just wish you had chosen differently.”

She waved it away casually. “Oh, people tell me that all the time.”

“Then, welcome to the company,” Hector said with a quiet, genuine smile. “Though at this rate, we should probably procure a second room.”

With a glance, Chris realized there were now five of them, all crammed in the little room meant for a pair. “Yeah… That might be worth looking into.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was a little nervous about posting this chapter. A lot happens in it, and we finally get the "reveal" for Chris and Tory about Hector and Llewellyn. On one hand, Hector guards that information very, very carefully. On the other, he *wants* Chris to be on their side and loyal to their cause. Having to explain it all in front of Tory was about as nerve-wracking as it gets.
> 
> Anyway. :) We're in the thick of it, now, and I hope I'm doing the characters some amount of justice. Tory is an especially hard one to play, since he hasn't had much POV time since landing in Amaranth. Comments, complaints, and critique are all welcome.
> 
> Definitely more Chris/Tory relationship interaction next chapter, though! (They can't avoid each other forever, I promise.)


	22. Sooner or Later

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title from [Sooner or Later](https://youtu.be/f3rkqZCgo-Y) by Breaking Benjamin.
> 
> Sorry this took so long to get out! Thanks for hanging in there. :)

Once the formalities had been decided, Howie melded into their group with seamless geniality. She helped Tory spread blankets across the floor and pile pillows where they would be useful. When Hector opened his pack, she slipped to his side immediately, scrutinizing the contents with fascinated and unbridled interest.

“What is this!” she cried happily, pulling out a lighter.

Hector snatched it back from her. “A thing we need.”

“And this?” She yanked the pair of Chris’ jeans from the bottom of the stack, upsetting things and bringing everything on top of them tumbling out. “These are strange… What does this do?” She’d discovered the zipper, and examined it with concentration only a Tinker could manage over such things.

Hector yanked it from her like a disobedient child. “It is a piece of clothing, and not for you to inspect!” he said in exasperation. “Don’t you have something else you could do?”

“No,” she sighed. “I will just get into trouble elsewhere.”

Chris chuckled a little at their antics; it was good to see Hector loosen up. He had a way about him, of maintaining calm and an amused control over any situation, that Chris had begun to wonder about. No one could be that serious all the time. Back in the shop, he had imagined Hector had a life of his own, apart from Llewellyn, where he could go to let loose. Knowing what he did now, it was a wonder Hector’s head did not crack from the strain of maintaining the façade for so long. Chris had felt ready to scream, pretending to be a mute fey for just a couple days. He couldn’t imagine keeping a false face up for over a year, living in a foreign realm, just waiting for someone to look at you wrong to know you were finished. No one to talk to, to vent to. For as strong as their bond was, Chris had a hard time imagining Hector talking about such frustrations with Llewellyn. The boy was a different sort of being, and so ice cold it gave Chris pause, at times. Even the moments of intuition he had, knowing Howie was behind the door, were detached observation, like he was a radio broadcasting whatever signal came his way. He never once let on he felt any emotion, about his own fate or others’. It wasn’t normal. It wasn’t human.

A touch on his elbow jolted Chris from his thoughts.

“Hey,” Tory’s smooth voice came as the big man sat down beside him.

Chris attempted a smile. It came out as a grimace.

They sat in silence for a minute, watching Hector grow more and more irritated with Howie’s efforts to help. Llewellyn had lain down for a rest on the bed—apparently the ability to sleep anywhere extended to bustling rooms in strange inns, as well.

Finally, “You’re brooding,” Tory said quietly.

The statement washed through Chris, coaxing his thoughts to the surface. “It’s been a wild couple days,” he admitted evenly. “I still don’t know if all of this is real.”

He smiled. “Welcome to the club.”

He glanced over—Tory’s mien was quiet, open. Chris bit his lip. “Thanks, by the way.”

Tory’s gaze slid over to him in question.

In answer, “For not saying _I told you so_ . _”_

Tory’s smile widened, and he shifted a bit, getting more comfortable. “Yeah, well… You’re lucky. You got the one guy in all of New York City who knows how to fight a dragon.”

It hit Chris, then—the coincidence, finding Tory the week he got the job at the shop. Perhaps it had been fate, or the rule of threes. Or maybe… Maybe he had been meant to find Tory, to lead him to Hector and Llewellyn. Or was it vice versa? “Yeah… Thanks. For that too.”

Chris’ smile warmed the silence.

Then, “I never lied to you, Chris,” Tory’s voice murmured, gentle and earnest. “I want you to know that. Not about how I felt. I was scared of letting things go too far, because of this,” he nodded to their surroundings, and to himself, “because of what I am. But it wasn't a lie to say that I cared about you. I just didn’t know how to reconcile the two.” With a breath, he confessed, “I still don’t.”

Uncertainty snuck upon him, the doubt that had taken up residence, curling him in its cold grasp and tainting everything he thought he knew. “How do I know you’re telling the truth? How do I know this is real?”

Tory smiled sadly. “Love works the same in both worlds, Chris. You don’t know. At some point, you’ve either got to choose to have faith, or walk away. Because standing the middle too long will kill you." He glanced back out to the room, and added in a murmur, "...It'll kill both of us."

The doubt in his voice only affirmed what Chris knew—Tory was just as uncertain about things as he was.

He opened his mouth to reply, but at that moment Howie joined them, flopping down at Chris’ side with a sigh.

“He will not take the word of Tinker—a bloody Tinker! He is packing it all wrong… It’s going to shift, and then, watch out!” she decided grumpily. “If he is going to have me along, he ought to at least take my advice.”

With a grin, Chris pointed out, “You invited yourself along. And he doesn’t trust easy.”

“No,” she sighed, “He’s _brontobrur_.”

The word was strange to him. “What do you mean?”

She shrugged. “A wounded spirit. He lost control, sometime. Now he tries to control everything, to keep it from happening again.”

It was a spark, a glint of something beautiful. “How can you tell?”

She shrugged easily. “I just do.”

Tory grimaced. “We’ll be made to pay for his ‘wounded spirit,’” he muttered. “Us and everyone else who gets caught up in this mad scheme.”

“Oh, don’t worry,” Howie smiled. “He’ll be made to pay for it, too.”

The words were hardly a comfort to Tory, whose frown only deepened.

....

The night passed uneventfully, apart from a spat between Howie and Hector over whether to buy dinner from the inn or eat what they had packed. Hector’s blood rose to boiling when Tory stepped in, offering to get dinner downstairs for whoever wanted it, and let the rest eat what they had. Finally Llewellyn pointed out it would look strange for some to order food and others not, and Hector conceded at last. With chagrin, Chris decided they may as well be a squabbling family on holiday.

He was grateful for a hot meal, truth be told. After several nights of dry bread and hard cheese, the fresh aroma of fried fish made his stomach growl. He ate an entire plate, and three of the corn rolls Howie insisted on. She was right—they melted in his mouth, even without butter.

“You can’t do better than the Drunken Forgemaster’s cornbread,” she said happily, earning a showy sigh from Hector. The meal had softened their edges though, and the protest was only half hearted. They all slept well, with food in their stomachs and the safety of civilization around them.

True to his word, Hector roused them all at dawn. Chris couldn’t be sure, because the darkness of the room made it difficult to tell the difference between day and night. But once they were fed and packed, and slipped down the stairs quietly so as not to rouse the other guests or attract curiosity, Chris saw the gentle glow of dawn’s light on the common room tables, spilling through the window panes. The innkeeper was already up, poking at the coals of last night’s fire with sluggish surety. He gratefully accepted their key and waved them a sleepy farewell. Stepping out the front door, Chris was almost sad to leave. He would have given much to stay a few more days at the inn, to recover from their trip downstream. But Hector seemed to operate on a deadline.

The night’s sleep had done him well, though. Where Hector’s mood last night had been irritable, restless and distant, there was a spring in his step this morning, as if the world had turned overnight and become a place of promise and adventure once more. He led them on, easily chattering with Howie over bakeries and points of interest. The animosity that had been between them the night before evaporated in the morning sun, and they became easy companions, heading up the group. Llewellyn walked behind, alert but lax. Chris and Tory brought up the rear.

Walking beside his one-time lover through the grid-like pattern of streets, Chris felt a pang of the loneliness that had crept upon him in darkness of their room last night—the desire for something, to reach out and take Tory’s hand, only to have the knowledge that Tory was a very different man than he supposed make him pause. Tory wasn’t the beaten down war veteran, the playful prince, and fellow human being. He was something much deeper, much more volatile and complex. He was a fey. The more Chris saw of this world, its people and creatures and nightmares, the more he was certain he would never truly _know_ Tory. He existed in a different world, where monsters crawled the night and fantastic, wondrous beings walked the day. He’d seen three centuries of the world pass, no doubt had countless romances, made friends with Tinker captains and slew dragons. He was a being from legend, and would continue to be so long after Chris had become an old man who only dreamt of such things. There was no place for Chris at his side.

It is what Tory had been telling him, all along.

And yet, he could still feel the familiarity, the gravitational pull that Tory so easily affected him with. Not the warm calm that Llewellyn had wielded, or the curiosity and confidence he felt in Hector’s presence. It was a very different kind of certainty, with Tory. It was comfortable knowledge that no matter what came, he could face it and survive.

That bond was about to be tested. Llewellyn seemed confident the Fomorians would obey his command, but Chris would be the first to admit knowledge wasn’t everything in this quest. He just hoped luck was on their side, too.

The city came alive around them as they walked. By the time they reached the gate, the streets had begun filling with morning errand-runners, Tinkers on their way to work and the occasional grocer selling his wares to early risers. But as they reached the silver-gilded arch in the western wall, they found them shut, manned by four guards who look to be battle-hardened men in heavy plate armor. The road ran directly up to the gates—no way left or right.

Undaunted, Howie cast a wink back at them, then strode up to the nearest guard with brassy flair. “ _Andantug makhnokam, arlota’noket,_ ” she said loudly.

The guard looked from her, to the no doubt ragged-looking group behind her. “ _Haratólek? Rugushak’elor’damiskat?_ ”

She leaned in, muttering something under her breath while pointing back to the others. A chuckle warmed the guard’s face. He nodded, and called up to the wall above.

The great gates clanked, then began swinging open.

As Howie strode triumphantly back to join them, Hector asked cautiously, “What did you tell them?”

She beamed. “That you were stupid fey who wanted to go prancing about in the outside forest. And that I would be back once you’ve been eaten by beasts.”

Chris had to hide a smile. Howie caught it, and threw him a wink as they proceeded through the crossing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I'm sorry this took so long to get out. Apart from a new job that ate my soul while I learned ropes, I also wrestled with how this chapter should go. I really, really wanted to give Tory and Chris some time one-on-one, so they have a chance to talk. I tried a few different drafts, but ultimately it just dragged the pacing down in what's already a pretty low-key stretch. There is a key scene coming up soon that'll see them confronting their relationship. It just can't happen quite yet. 
> 
> Thanks again for hanging with me while life took a turn. New plan is to keep chapters updating Mondays and Thursdays from here on out. :) 
> 
> Also, a Knights of Amaranth Tumblr for those interested. Updates, doodles, inspiration and all that jazz. Feel free to drop by, if you like. :)


	23. Ready to Fall

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chapter song is [Ready to Fall](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=A8DXCUEWbVE) by Rise Against.

Once past the gates, the wild opened before them. Rolling New England hills covered in evergreens, the wild changing colors of autumn, and the grey mist of the chill morning yet lingered through the trees and little hollows. It was beautiful, but Chris knew those woods were filled with creatures even the Tinkers feared, behind their wall. The promise that they might yet find the Fomorians somewhere out there in the vastness was both a weight and a goal pressing him onward. He was used to walking—he didn’t worry much about that. But the fear or what they might meet was a daunting prospect that leant them all a steady, but unrushed pace.

As they walked, their conversation inevitably turned to what lay before them, and Howie chattered on about the different rivers in this part of the world, and the dangers in each. Hearing her talk of abductions by fúath—scaled creatures that sounded disconcertingly humanoid—and fanged bats the size of dogs, he was very glad they had not spent more time on the ship than necessary. Not that where they were going was exactly safe, but it felt better to be on land, able to move, than trapped on a ship and hunted by creatures like that.

They made fair progress, and as afternoon sank into evening, they came upon the river they searched for.

It was not very wide—fifty yards across, at most—but the slow, dark water ensured a depth that would swallow unwary travelers whole. Llewellyn surveyed the roll of the current and the blackness of the opposite shore with calm appraisal. “Yes,” he nodded. “This is it. We camp here.”

“On the banks of a river!” Howie cried unhappily. “You must be mad!”

“That’s what I’ve been saying all along,” Tory muttered.

“There are Unseelie in the waters here,” she said, as if he must not already know. “They come out of the water in the darkness and snatch you whole! Did you not listen!”

“Nevertheless,” Llewellyn countered evenly, “This is where we camp. We will want to keep a fire going at all times. That will keep the Unseelie at bay.”

Chris didn’t like the sound of this, but there was little he could do. Siding with Tory and Howie would only fracture the group further. He looked across the patch of bank, nodding in agreement. “We can move those stones easily enough to create a fire pit. And there’s plenty of firewood.” He felt Tory’s eyes on him, wide in disbelief. He managed a half-hearted shrug. “He’s been right about Unseelie so far,” he offered in explanation. “I don’t see why we shouldn’t trust him about this.”

Howie’s frown deepened, but she set to work gathering large stones from around the new campsite, grumbling under her breath in Puck-Woad. Hector joined in, and Llewellyn began unpacking the cooking gear.

Tory stayed a moment, as if trying to decide whether to continue the argument. And then, “I think I’ll scout the area, pick up firewood,” he said with an edge. “Chris, why don’t you come with me? The others can manage the fire ring.”

Surprised at his boldness, Chris glanced involuntarily to Hector.

His expression was thoughtful, but calm. “Yes, Chris—we can handle the work here. But do not wander far,” he said to both of them. “Night is nearing.”

Tory nodded casually. “We'll return before the sun sets.”

Impressed at their civility, Chris gathered his cloak. As he turned to leave, Hector called: “Chris.”

He looked back; Hector tossed a sheathed dagger at him, and Chris caught it on instinct.

“Just in case,” he winked.

Chris was tempted to ask, in case of what. But Hector’s smile made him uncertain he’d want to hear the answer. He tied the dagger to his belt and followed Tory into the wood.

....

They went far—farther than Chris thought wise. But Tory wandered easily, treading on the leaves with hardly a rustle. He noticed it, after a few minutes. The forest hummed quietly around them with life, and in it, Tory’s footfalls could hardly be heard. It was like walking with a ghost. His own crunching, faltering footsteps sounded like a moose next to Tory’s panther-like tread. And buried in the silence, there was a waiting, provoking Chris with things deliberately unsaid, until he couldn’t take it anymore. Too much had happened, too much had changed between them, to pretend otherwise.

“Listen...” he managed, as Tory plucked up another branch. “I know you don’t want to be here. But whatever else those two may be, they’ve researched this stuff. They know what they’re doing.”

“That’s what worries me,” Tory answered quietly. He paused; the cold afternoon light trickled down through the leaves, cutting the forest floor in sharp relief of shadow and gold. “How do we know they’re telling us the truth? How do we know we aren’t just… tools to them?”

Memory of the ship and Llewellyn’s cold, commanding voice washed through him; he’d become a tool already. But he couldn’t say how, or why. He shook his head as he bent to pick up another branch. Reassuring himself as much as Tory: “They want survive this just as much as we do.”

“But they don’t need us alive to do that,” he said. “I wasn’t even supposed to be here—what’s to say they won’t leave us for dead, once they have what they’ve come for?”

It was a valid point, but Chris knew there was more beneath the question. His throat clenched as he asked what had haunted him since the tomb. “Do you wish you hadn’t come? That you’d stayed in New York?”

The words cut through him like glass. He heaved a sigh, and when he spoke, the words were softer with admission. “No. But I… I’ve seen men like Hector. _Known_ men like him. They build their lives on the corpses of those who follow them. They’ll sacrifice themselves and everyone around them to get what they want, and damn the cost. ”

He knew then. Knew what Tory was hiding, beneath the mask of calm. Like standing on the edge of a cliff, not sure if jumping would kill him, he forced the question: “The dreams… They weren’t just Afghanistan.”

He shifted restlessly. For a moment, Chris wasn’t sure he would answer.

“No,” Tory admitted. “They weren’t.”

“How long were you a soldier?” he demanded. The pieces of the puzzle were coming together—the secrets, the stories. The depth of Tory’s lies.

“All my life,” he admitted. The corners of his mouth made and a weary attempt at a smile. “That part was always true.”

Chris’s brows furrowed in disbelief. “Three hundred years?”

“First as a thane. Then after I went into exile, I signed on as a soldier in the human world. As soon as I learned the language, how things worked. I found the army, and enlisted. They needed all the men they could get.”

“When…”

“1916.” His expression was sharp. “The first Great War.”

 _Shit._ Chris stood speechless, almost unable to comprehend it. “World War One. You fought in World War One.”

He turned back to scan the ground with feigned focus, searching for branches in the dying light. “To us, it was just… The War. Nobody thought it would happen again. Could happen again.”

Chris tried to imagine—going from this, a primeval world, to the chaos and horrors of modern warfare.

“There were nights in the trenches…” Tory murmured. “We thought the world was ending. Thought we’d tear each other so bloody none of us would survive.” He exhaled in grief. “Then it happened again.”

Chris swallowed the knot forming in his throat. “Did you go back?”

“Not to France. The US was taking too long to get into the war, and I couldn’t wait. I conscripted with the Poles, and fought there. Hopped around a couple different contingents. Then I joined with the Russians, once their asses got in gear.” A small huff. “Damned Ruskies fought like hell, even if Stalin was a bastard.”

Chris almost couldn’t process it—everything Tory would have seen, been through. There were horror stories of the world wars. Even with his focus on premodern Europe, he’d studied enough history to know how brutal the 20th century had been.

“After that it was Korea,” he continued, “and Vietnam.” His jaw clenched. “Then I defected for the war in Sri Lanka. Came back to the US to fly Air Force in Kosovo, Iraq. Wherever there was fighting. Wherever they needed me. Afghanistan was just the last.”

“How… You weren't recognized?”

“You do something long enough, you learn. Every few tours, I’d let my bill run out, or take the chance when I was wounded for an honorable discharge. Wait a handful of years, then go back as a new enlistment… Different platoon, different commanders. Never get too high in the ranks.” He would not look Chris in eye. “It’s gotten harder, the last few times. Harder to forge documents that’ll pass.”

Chris inhaled, letting it sink in. All those nights, laying awake in the dark. All the stories. It wasn’t just Afghanistan, a handful of years in hell. It was almost a century of it, the darkest edges humanity had. And before that, he’d been a knight in his own world, facing the atrocities of premodern war.

Tory bit his lip, as if trying to decide his mind. Then he dropped the wood gently to the earth, and crossed to Chris with decision, pulling something from beneath the collar of his tunic. “I kept this with me, on all of my tours.” The glint of metal, and Chris saw—dog tags. And on the chain, a small blue stone wrapped in wire, like a pendant clanked against the plates. “It’s a journeying stone—like a one-way ticket back to Otherworld. We don’t need Hector, or Llewellyn. We find a mirror, and with this, we can pass back through. We can go _home_.”

Chris looked at the pendant with unexpected emotion—after all the madness, seeing something so simple, so familiar, tugged at his heart like a beacon. But he knew it was false hope. “It’s not your home, Tory,” he forced. “This is. No matter how much you pretend. No matter how far you run… You can’t change what you are.”

“I was never _running_ ,” Tory growled in answer. “I stayed in Otherworld because of what I could do there—the _good_ I could do. People like Darrell and the others… I could protect them. Move faster, push harder. React quicker when it counted. I could keep them alive.” He let the chain fall. “That’s who I am, Chris. And I never wanted to change that.” His drew a heavy breath. “Not until I met you.”

Chris' eyes darted up—Tory’s face was earnest, honest. They stood close now, close enough to reach out and touch. “What do you mean?”

“Chris, I’ve lived… centuries. I’ve watched entire generations pass. I was a ghost,” he said with conviction. “Never staying in one platoon, one life for more than a handful of years. I never found a person or place that made me want to change that. I never found a _home_ , until the night we met.” He breathed, letting the words weigh the air like a shroud. “I knew I shouldn’t have gone with you, back to your place. I knew I shouldn’t have said yes when you found me on the street. I knew how it would end—how it _had_ to end. But every time I tried…” He exhaled shakily, and shook his head. “It was selfish. But I couldn’t bear to leave. And I couldn’t stay. ”

“…Why didn’t you tell me?” he managed at last. He couldn’t keep the edge of anger from his voice. Everything Tory hadn’t told him, everything he’d refused to say. Even if they’d stayed back in Otherworld, how many more years would it have been before Tory ghosted? Would Chris have ever known the real reason, or been left with nothing but a handful of ash? “Why didn’t you _tell_ me?”

“I wanted to," he admitted with guilt. "So many nights, I lay there and thought… What’s the worst that could happen? But the answer was that you’d leave. That you’d either believe me and want none of it, or think I was crazy. So I kept quiet. I enjoyed the time I had with you, even if it was only a little while.”

“But you lied to me,” Chris countered, clinging to the pain he had felt that first night in the tomb. “Everything you told me… The story about your family, and your life…”

“Those were true,” he returned. His half-smile edged with sorrow. “I really did have brothers. We lived in a cottage by the river. My mother baked bread every morning and chased us around with a broom. When we got older, Artorius and Sention joined the thanes, and Cadmius signed on as a merc guard for some captain on the border.” His voice fell in fond confession: “My mother… Her name was Sigrun. And she hated that damned wolf pup with everything in her.”

It was a crack, a chink opening in the wall between them.

“It was all true, Chris,” he said quietly. His voice pressed in earnest warmth. “Every word. It just happened longer ago than I let you believe.”

The words washed over him in a gentle wave. The warmth in Tory’s eyes, the earnestness Chris had seen that first night, that had grown to be so much more. The safety he’d felt, wrapped in his arms. He could be himself around Tory; he hadn’t feared exposing his heart, because he knew it was safe.

Tory was still the same man he had been, back in Otherworld. There was just more to him than Chris thought. All the unspoken secrets, the tragedies he kept beneath the surface—they were already a part of him, and always would be. Whatever had happened in Amaranth to make him run, whatever else he’d faced in the century since… It was all a part of the Tory he’d fallen in love with. He’d just never known.

The warmth between them suddenly felt very real, and alive. With tentative uncertainty, Chris raised his hand, resting it on Tory’s chest.

The touch brought his gaze up, and there locked.

Swiftly Tory brought a hand under Chris’ chin, tilting his head up. Their mouths sealed in a kiss. Soft, desperate, and hungry. Once he was there, everything else faded. The forest, the danger, the others waiting for them. He was wrapped in Tory’s arms again, held in his adamant grip, pulled as if by magnetic force against his body. He was home.  

But it wasn’t to last. Tory’s hold loosened, and he started away.

Desperate not to lose this, Chris wrapped a hand around the nape of his neck, keeping him close. For moments they stood, foreheads together, breathing the stillness around them.

It wasn’t enough. “Why did you leave?” Chris rasped. All the confessions, all the days between them seemed to heighten. “Why did you run from your world?”

The words cut Tory like knives. Chris felt him tense beneath his hands. When the answer came, it was raw with grief. “There are things out there, Chris... Things you’ve never seen, that would haunt you as long as you live." His eyes darted up, trapping Chris in the ghosts of sorrow and pain. "There are worse things than dying.”

Chris breathed, feeling the fear radiating from him like a storm.

A final, chaste kiss pressed his lips, and then Tory was out of his reach. He stepped away, leaving Chris’ arms empty and cold.

“You know now,” Tory managed with hoarse confession. “You’ve seen me for what I am… Before this is done, you’ll see what Hector is, too. And if it’s not too late, you’ll have to make a choice.” He breathed, steadying his voice. “When that time comes, if you still want to go home, I’ll be here. And I swear to you, I won’t leave. I’ll stay by your side, no matter how old you get. I’ll follow you across the world, digging up the stories you love so much... I'll follow you to the end of the earth, if you’ll have me.” A shaky inhale. “That’s my choice. All I need to know is yours.”

Chris opened his mouth to respond, but Tory had already pulled away, gathering the wood with one sweeping gesture and moving back toward camp. It was decisive, giving him no room to counter. Chris stood in stunned silence. His heart ached, hearing Tory promise what he’d wanted all along.

But he was right. Hector’s offer still rolled through him, a tandem promise.  _We won’t leave him. Not until you’re ready._

Everything they were working for, Hector and Llewellyn’s quest, and whatever lay beyond… It was a path he could not take, with Tory at his side.

The choice before him was suddenly stark, and terrifying.


	24. Unraveling

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Calm before the storm.

When they walked back into camp, the mood was jovial. Howie roasted fresh fish over the flame, expounding the details of stone-making to Llewellyn. Hector sat opposite them, pouring over a small red-leather tome, lax as always. If Chris didn’t know better, he’d swear the man was on summer holiday, not camped in the wilderness with a fey war-band. Tory moved immediately to stack his bundle of firewood with the rest, and busied himself with his pack.

Still unsettled after his walk with Tory, Chris chose to take a seat on the unoccupied edge of the fire. Hector did not move, betray that he had seen them return, or the tension that was between them. Chris was grateful for that. He didn’t think he could bear another round of questions right now.

But he did see his opportunity to get some answers, freed at last from the prying ears of civilization. Leaning over to grab a handful of bread and cheese from his bag, Chris wondered aloud, “So how exactly do you intend to bind these Fomorians?”

Across the fire, Llewellyn leaned back against a log with confident calm. “The binding will be simple, once we reach the appropriate place,” he answered. “Reaching that place will prove the challenge. We must be in the throne room—the heart of their den. You will summon them, and I will bind them.”

Chris nearly choked on his bread. He coughed, and sputtered. “Wait… _I’m_ going to summon them?”

Hector came to join them, sitting beside Chris. The familiarity was slightly jarring after all that had happened. But he spoke easily, as one friend to another. “We cannot do it without you, Chris. Because you are a mortal, here in Amaranth you can work a unique sort of magic—because you are not of this world, you can affect it in a way no fey being can. Once we reach the throne room, you will need to draw a particular set of runes cast in a circle. We have learned the proper pattern and can instruct you. It will bring the Fomorians to gather around us, and then Llewellyn will complete the pattern and bind them.”

The plan was clear; Chris still couldn’t help a pang of disbelief. “You want me to summon the gods of chaos.”

Hector hesitated, then went all in. “Yes. With the Fomorians, Llewellyn and I will be safe. We will not need to fear the Queen, or disguise our names. We may live in peace.”

“In peace with an Unseelie army,” Tory grunted.

“I am doing what I believe is best, Master Rask,” Hector bit calmly. “I have lost much to that witch, and I will be damned if she takes my life from me, too. When I die, it will be on my own terms, not at the hands of some sorceress.”

“You should not waste time worrying about death,” Howie interjected happily. “It rots your brain and kills your appetite.”

The words did not comfort Hector. “All I ask of Chris is that he perform the summoning ward. After that, if he wishes to continue with us, he may.” His gaze turned to Chris then, piercing through the fog of warring emotions. “If he wishes to forsake everything he has worked for and return to the mortal world, he may do that as well.” His voice lowered, earnest in its alacrity: “But I mean what I say, that we cannot face this task without you.”

For a moment, a heartbeat, Chris felt the connection between him and Hector spark, and fuse as it had those months in the little bookshop. He felt admiration, wanting to please Hector and prove his worth.

Then Howie’s voice cracked the silence: “I daresay you can’t do it without him. You need us all, you big git. Why else would we be here?”

The corners of Hector’s mouth quirked in a smile, and his gaze slid away. “Indeed, why else,” he said in humor.

“You talk about getting that deep into an Unseelie den as if it were easy,” Tory cut through the merriment with the cold voice of a soldier. “Even with a squad of fighters, that’s no easy task. And these… Fomorians… sound fiercer than most. Do you have a plan?”

Hector nodded. “We had originally planned on three, and hoped to evade detection by stealth. With our group, however, that might prove difficult.”

Howie shook her head. “I can be sneaky, but this oaf,” she nudged Chris’ boot, “You will be lucky if he can sneak up on a turtle.”

Hector nodded. “We will face that problem when we have a better idea of what we’re dealing with. We should have enough time to scout the area before going in, when we reach it.”

“There’s a problem there,” Howie said pointedly. “I don’t know about wherever you come from, but around here the Unseelie are unpredictable. You do not know you are on a den of them until you’ve already been bit.”

“I believe the Fomorians will be hard to miss,” Hector said in reassurance. “By all accounts, their den is an actual structure, built from the ruins of their prey.”

“Like… bones?” Chris asked uneasily.

Hector smiled. “Not quite. The Fomorians were pirates, in essence. Their structures are stone. Charred stone, specifically, taken from the homes of those they’ve killed. Such a structure will be difficult to miss. Which is what gives me confidence we won’t.”

“A structure…” Tory repeated. “You mean a building. A fortress.”

Hector’s gaze flew to the man. The words were said with certainty—with knowledge. “…Perhaps so, Master Rask. Our disadvantage is that few have returned from the den of the Fomorians alive. In truth, we have no way of knowing what will meet us on the banks of that waterfall. But we have made every preparation possible to ensure it will not end in our deaths.”

“A politician’s way to say you have no idea what you’re doing.”

Hector chose to ignore it. “Chris, you should spend some time with Llewellyn tonight, learning the ward you will need to create. It is a complex pattern, and it will go faster when the time comes if you are familiar with it already.”

Chris nodded, prying his gaze from the brooding Tory to the sidhe, who seemed fixated on Tory’s dismay, as well. But after a moment, Llewellyn blinked and turned back to the conversation.

“Then let us begin.”

The meal finished, and Chris and Hector cleared away a portion of the logs to provide a bare patch of earth nearly eight feet square. Llewellyn stood on the edge, and Chris in the center. Tory refused to join the endeavor and maintained his seat by the fire, while Howie watched eagerly from her perch atop her log seat, which she moved from the campfire to Llewellyn’s side.

“It begins with a circle,” Llewellyn instructed. “One arm length across. The line itself must be two fingerwidths wide.”

Chris mentally mapped the described shape, then knelt in the dirt, using a broken stick to draw the design on the soft earth. When he finished, Llewellyn frowned.

“No. It is wobbly and uneven. Start again.”

With a sigh, Chris wiped the area clean and started again. It was going to be a long night.

....

It was nearing midnight before they were finished. Llewellyn still seemed unhappy with his efforts, but he was no longer demanding Chris redo every step twice over to get it right. He had a vague fear he’d accidentally create the ward in earnest and bring the Fomorians down on top of them, but Llewellyn disparaged the notion. Apparently scribbling in dirt wasn’t what did it—real magic could only be made when written with charcoal or ink, painted on top of something else. He breathed a little easier after that.

In the end, Chris had to confess the design was impressive. Great, sweeping lines intersected the original circle, filled with more arcs of varying length and width. Runes dotted the inner workings, and at the center, a small but empty crescent moon filled the center. It looked for all the world like the inscriptions on ancient Viking burials… But if Llewellyn were correct, it could work a powerful force. And Chris hoped Llewellyn was right—he tried not to think what would happen if he messed it up when the time came.

 

...

Tory volunteered for first watch, when the time came. Even now, in the deepest hours of night, he felt restless. Ready to move. Every turn of the page, every new piece of information Hector revealed, left a darker sense of foreboding in his heart. How eagerly Chris had agreed to fashion the ward left a dark taste in his mouth.

But Tory had made his decision. It was up to Chris, now, to determine his own fate.

The others fell into various states of slumber around him, rolled up in blankets against the cold. The fire crackled and popped, casting its orange-red glow across their forms, a dance with the shadows now black as night surrounding them. After so many years in the city, the quiet was eerie. Distantly a thought called to him, that in this light, in this silence, the others almost looked dead. Tory acknowledged it, then let the thought pass, knowing no good would come from letting his mind wander that road. He rose, yanking free another log from the stack behind him and tossing it on the blaze. The flames leapt to consume the dry wood.

As Tory stared into the blaze, the cadence of another fire, another time, melded with it, until he could hear the rumble of voices. Laughter. Ghosts.

....

_“She never had a chance, poor devil.”_

_Bër’s rumbling chuckle rolled through the shadow-cast dark.  The fire crackled and popped, sending sparks of ash dancing into the night air. The thick smell of woodburning and smoke surrounded Tor, as it had every night for weeks. He may have been a soldier trained for war, but when the king himself appointed him to a hunting raid, it was not his place to refuse. Consolation was the rest of the troupe were thanes like him, following their duty.  Darkness lay thick about them, camped on the shore of the great lake that spread like a black pit beyond the glow of the fire’s ring. Pinpricks of stars spread the heavens. But here, in the glow of the fire’s warmth, they didn’t fear such things._

_“The whole pile comes tumblin’ down, and then she turns to me…” Bër’s voice raised in a barely-contained laugh. “And she says, ‘Da, ’twas the cock!’ Nay on three years old, and all she says is to blame it on the cockrel!”_

_Across the fire, Mera grinned while slicing her knife across a whetstone, casual as ever._

_“She’s cunning like her Ma,” Leif returned, reaching to toss a bit of wood into the fire. His keen grey eyes held laughter. “You best watch out for that one.”_

_Bër grinned in turn. “’Tween her and the youngest babe, I’ll meet my death. Turn of the wheel, though. Soon it’ll be her out here gutting wolves and bocans. Fucking monsters better watch their hides, then.”_

_Laughter rumbled through Tor, echoing the others._

_Reclining at his side, with a hand casually on a knee, their captain Tulios laughed loudest of all.  “Lucky for us,” he returned. “That wolf nearly had you, today.”_

_“Fie on that. Luck has nothing to do with it,” Bër grinned proudly. “This rate, the wolves’ll be cleared well before winter.”_

_Quix grunted his disagreement from where he sat on the edge of the firelight, cleaning his knife. Tor could count on one hand the number of times he’s heard the big man speak, in all the weeks he'd known him. Even in combat, he was quiet as death, and just as dangerous._

_Tulios waved the gloom away. “The worst is behind us now, with that last den cleared. Just the hills around Levatha to deal with now.”_

_“Things are quiet there, this time of year,” Tor offered easily, turning his gaze away from the still-silent Quix. “Shouldn’t be too difficult.”_

_“Then back home?” Demeter asked._

_Bër laughed and threw a piece of cram at her head. “You just want to be back in time for the gladiator games.”_

_“Damn right.” She grinned with wicked youth.” I’ve a score to settle with the bastard who knocked me out of the running last time.”_

_“Knocked you on your ass, you mean,” Mera laughed._

_Demeter bit her thumb at the older fey. Tor couldn’t help but wonder at the smile he saw hiding in the corners of Mera’s mouth—if those two ever coupled, he was fairly sure they’d either end the world or each other. He didn’t want to be around to find out which._

_“Then back home,” Tulios answered the previous question, ignoring their antics. He stretched and settled more permanently into his seat. “Though I want to spend another day hunting, here, before we head to Levatha. We’re near enough Anhydros, and there was a report of hunters disappearing in that stretch of woods this summer. Worth taking a look, while we can.”_

_“Folk disappear in the wilds all the time,” Demeter grumbled in disgust. “Probably just a couple of hayeaters thinking they were smarter than the wolves.”_

_Tor tried not to visibly wince at the slur. Across the fire, he saw Leif tense._

_Tulios’ jaw set. “There were all experienced hunters, by the report. And there was a similar happening two years ago, in the same area.”_

_The words did nothing to dispel the tension now descending like a cloak over the camp. The jovial mood of seconds ago had turned to a dangerous edge. Silence settled on Tor’s shoulders._

_Leif was not so reserved. Quietly, he growled, “This_ hayeater _’s saved your ass more time than I can count, this route.”_

_“Hold now, Lief—” Bër started._

_“Maybe next time I’ll let the wolf rip your throat out, you pig-fucker,” Leif spat at her._

_Demeter had risen on reflex, hand dangerously near her skene hilt. Out of the corner of his eye, Tory saw Quix tense, a hand on his own weapon._

_“Enough!” Tulios barked. He hadn’t risen from where he sat. A dangerous edge flashed in his gaze—Tor knew enough to say if any had disobeyed, they would have been on their asses faster than they could blink. “Anyone so much as thinks of drawing a weapon, they’ll answer to me,” he growled. Glancing to Demeter, “Choose your words better next time, greenhorn.”_

_Anger flashed in Demeter’s eyes. Tor saw her fist clench, her shoulders tense. But after a moment of heavy silence, she huffed and stormed away from the fire, kicking her pack half to hell as she did. The night was thick around them, dangerously so. But none called out to stop her disappearing into the dark._

_“She’s going to get herself killed out there,” Bër muttered at last._

_“Good,” Leif growled. “Devils take her, the fucking bitch.”_

_“Let her walk it off,” Tulios negated. “She’s not the first recruit to repeat the words of her elders in mixed company.”_

_Tor appraised their captain, then, with grave levity. Tulios had not laughed Demeter’s comment off, as he knew others might have; he’d not immediately challenged her, either. It had been only a century since the Aesir and Saturnae had reached a truce over their royal city, and many still felt the barb of division. He’d been on the receiving end of the slur often enough, with his Aesir ancestry; no doubt Leif had, too. For centuries the Saturnae had seen their folk as barbarians, vulgar and uncivilized. Hayeaters._

_With a dark sigh, Bër rose to lay another log on the fire. “…Greenhorn or not,” he said lowly to none in particular, “a body’s made to pay for their words.” He cast a glance at Leif. “Even those said in anger.”_

_Leif’s jaw clenched, but he said nothing._

....

The memory called to him, whispers of ghosts, as he stared into the heart of the campfire’s blaze. Centuries separated him from the thane he had once been, but in the quiet of an Amaranth wood at night, he couldn’t say where that man had ended, and Tory had begun. The moment he first held a gun in his hand, maybe, or the nights he spent in speakeasies after the first Great War, drowning the memories with liquor and unrepentant hedonism. They’d come back, so many of them broken inside. If he had been a bit more broken, if his dreams had held more for him than the scarred French countryside and tangled barbed wire, no one had cared to prod him about it. By the time he’d been smoking fags with the Polish freedom fighters in Siedlce, he’d known how to keep others dancing. Laugh off questions rather than stumble over them, tell the truth but not the whole. Grieve without weeping.

Across the fire, he watched the assiduous rise and fall of Chris’ slumbering chest, the bundle that was Howie turn fitfully, and beside her, the gold of the sidhe’s unruly hair caught the light’s glow, burnished darker by shadows. The sliver of a moon had ridden high in the sky—3 AM.

He rose and added another brace of logs to the fire pit, then raised Hector for the next watch without a word.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First off, sorry this chapter took so long! (That's the last time I try to introduce seven new characters in one go *facepalm*). Let me know if it's at all confusing... I debated long and hard whether to include the cultural tension between the Aesir (Norse fey) and Saturnae (Roman fey), because the scene is so short, but in the end decided to go with it because it gives us a glimpse of the more volatile side of fey temperament in action. And adds another layer to who Tory is, and was. 
> 
> A note about the language use - I took some liberties using modern expletives in the flashback. It might be a little jarring, but I wanted to translate it as Tory would remember it, and though they wouldn't be saying things like "fuck" and "greenhorn", they'd be using the Orulian Latin equivalent, so I went with it. Hoping it works a bit better. Interesting tidbit, too: the root for "hayeater" as Demeter uses it would be _chordus_ , which translates approximately to "leftover hay" or "the hay left to harvest at the end of the season". So there's that little extra knife-twist to the insult that gets lost in translation.
> 
> More chapters coming early next week. Closing in on the finish line. :)


	25. To the Fortress

****Chris woke to a gentle hand nudging him awake. “Chris…”

The voice was deep, and warm. He reached for his sheets, only to find the rough fabric of a patched blanket instead.

His eyes opened, and he found Hector crouched beside him with a knowing smile.

“Still dreaming?” the man asked cheekily.

Chris blinked back the haze. Sunlight streamed through the tangle of tree branches above them, filtered by the smoke of their little fire. Beside it, Howie sat cooking toasted cheese bread, humming contentedly. Llewellyn stood on the bank; he looked over the water with a serene levity.

“No…” he managed, groggy. Then it hit him—“Where’s Tory?”

“He went off to scout ahead,” Hector explained. “He should be back any minute.”

Only partially reassured, Chris sat up. The crisp air of a fey New England morning filled his lungs, and he breathed deep, letting the chill wake him.

“Wake up, lazy dog,” Howie called with chipper brightness. “I have some breakfast for you.”

Chris didn’t know if he’d ever get used to Puck-Woad expressions. He dragged himself off the bed of blankets and stumbled to the fire. Taking his seat, he glanced over to Hector. “So the plan is to follow the river?” he asked, trying to regain his bearings.

Hector agreed. “When your boyfriend returns. If he does. He seemed rather terse this morning.”

Chris didn’t say it, but the words stung deeper than Hector knew. Their argument in the woods still rang fresh in his mind. “He’ll be back,” he reassured, more to himself than anyone else. “He wouldn’t leave without me.”

Hector cast him a curious look, but said nothing, and continued to pack camp.

....

Tory did return, but it was with a dismal frown. “No waterfall within scouting distance. We may have another hard day’s walk ahead,” he announced.

Hector’s mouth turned in an answering grimace. “It should be nearer, if the tales were correct. We may have misinterpreted the evidence.”

Chris shook his head. “We can’t be certain, but this river fits the description. Didn’t it say the den was hidden? Could it be masked by ground cover?” he wondered.

Llewellyn answered. “These beings are large—larger even than fey. It would not be a small structure one might easily miss.”

“ _By Narcissus’ waterfall_ , is how the inscription read,” Hector insisted. “This stretch should be the place.”

“Narcissus’ waterfall?” Howie said suddenly. “Oh, you’re not searching for a real waterfall, then,” she laughed. “I thought we followed the river searching for a real waterfall.”

Her outburst spread silence through the group. They looked at her as if they’d just been stung.

“…What do you mean, not a real waterfall?” Hector asked in surprise.

She gestured to the trees. “These are Narcissus trees. A funny name, so we guess it to be right. They grow strangely, not like the others.”

“So, Narcissus are trees?” Chris gathered.

Howie nodded her head. “They grow together, all tangled into knots. When they start tumbling over themselves, we call it a waterfall.”

Hector had caught the thread. “That’s it, then! Howie, are there any groves of these trees—only these trees—along this river?”

“Oh, yes,” she nodded. “Only a few hours’ walk north of here. We do not go there. Mothers tell their children they will throw them to the waterfalls when they are little, to make them obey. Bad things come from the waterfall.”

They were already in motion. Hector grabbed the packs and tossed them to the others while Chris scattered evidence of the fire. The excitement of unraveling the puzzle caught him in a rush, and all thoughts of his world and Amaranth, Tory and Hector flew from his mind. He knew they were on the right course, and it sent adrenaline into his veins.

Llewellyn stepped to Howie’s side. “Could you lead us there?”

Howie nearly leapt from her skin in excitement. “Of course! Just follow me! I know the way!”

And follow her they did, man, fey and sidhe, back into the tangles of the wild.

....

In truth, it was less than a dozen miles’ walk. Before long, they began to see more of the knotted pines, and less of the rich trees Chris identified with a New England autumn in the mortal world. Reds and yellows gave way to the black evergreen of the Narcissus branches. The path remained clear, though overhead, the brambles grew more thickly, until Chris thought the sunlight would be blotted out entirely.

Behind him, Chris heard Tory wondering at the change. “We’re definitely in the right place,” he muttered. “No forest should be able to block out the sun…”

Chris had to agree. But in their current circumstance, it was only encouragement to continue. “What sort of structure are we looking for, again?” he called to Hector.

The answer never came.

Before them, opening in a rolling meadow of yellow grass, stood the fortress.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short chapter this time, but felt like the perfect place to break it. :) More'll be coming on its heels.


	26. Bloodstained Ground

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The battle begins.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Songs for this chapter are [Spirit](https://youtu.be/mzAbuEHn1c8) and [Slanias Song](https://youtu.be/vgRceKtf5gI) by Eluveitie.

Not a breath of wind disturbed the forest about them. The rising sunlight reached out, clawing at the leaves and loam with desperation, clinging to the promise of the day. A chill descended, and Chris wrapped his cloak more tightly around him. There was a silence, here. It wrapped every footfall, every exhale of breath. Like a padded room, the fortress itself seemed to devour the noise of the beings around it to mask them in deathly silence.

Llewellyn spoke what they already knew: “We are here.”

They all stood, unmoving, until Llewellyn’s voice pierced them through.

“Viator Rask, it is time for you to play your part.”

Confusion washed through Chris. He glanced over—Tory had gone white as a sheet, and he gazed on the castle with unmasked fear.

....

The voices screamed in Tory as he saw the black parapets rise in the near distance. He saw them—all of them—over again as if for the first time. He felt the dead pressing close, demanding to be heard. They begged for salvation, and over again, his soul ripped from his chest, bleeding with them until he could no longer breathe.

Llewellyn did not seem disturbed. “If you ever want to be rid of the ghosts of your comrades,” he said evenly, “This is your opportunity. Do not waste it.”

Agape, Tory could only shake his head. “How… How did you…”

Hector’s eyes widened, looking first at Llewellyn, then Tory in sudden clarity. “Because this is why you are here,” he said adamantly. “ Why you were always meant to be here.”

Chris shook his head, from one to the other. “What is he talking about?”

Tory didn’t answer. His brows furrowed, wrestling with the words that echoed through them all.

But Hector was not so impressed. “Did you not wonder why your partner ran from his homeland, Chris?”

The memories welled in him, an insuppressable tide.

Hector answered for him. “We spent time there, in Orulia, when we first escaped the Queen’s wrath. Llewellyn and I scoured their archives for any mention of the Fomorians that might help us in our quest. We found the story— _your_ story,” Hector looked to Tory with new understanding.

Tory's breath came in a trembling exhale.

Hector continued with cold alacrity. The man’s eyes cut through him, dragging the truth from him without mercy. “He was on an expedition with six others—fellow thanes—into the wild country of Orulia. Hunting wolves, protecting their homeland. They came unknowingly upon a fortress much like this one. What possessed them to enter, I do not know.”

— _Demeter’s broken body on the threshold, slashed through, eyes open in death.—_

_—Rage in Tulios’ eyes, shouting that he be damned before he let a monster take one of his own and live—_

“In the end, only one thane returned,” Hector finished. “When he did, he told a tale of wraiths that walked through walls and devoured souls.”

The calm expression on Llewellyn’s face hadn’t wavered. “I did not know you at first, Viator. But when you knew of the fortress, the account returned to me, and your name connecting you to it.”

_—The bloodstained face of Mera, a Valkyrie if there ever was one—_

_—Bër’s roaring shout, spitting curses in blood as they gutted him—_

_—Quix trapped under collapsed rubble, body broken, shoving him to safety. "Run, Tor!"—_

_—Running ahead of the shadow, leaping down stairways. A star through the cracks, leading them outward—_

_—Tulios pulled down into the darkness, Leif launching at the creatures with a roar—_

“Unfortunately, the king did not believe you,” Hector said with finality, speaking what Tory already knew. “He thought you were stricken with grief for your comrades, and the fortress was just an abandoned ruin infested with common Unseelie… Amatus allowed you a week to recover your senses, then he would send a full company of warriors to explore the stronghold. He ordered you, the lone survivor, to lead them back to the location you were ambushed.”

“…I couldn’t do it,” Tory murmured at last. “He did not understand!”

....

It was the final piece, for Chris. Standing at Tory’s side, hearing the horrors of his past, he knew. “You ran,” he said. “That’s why you left, the command the king made. You ran rather than lead them back.”

“I wouldn’t lead even more people to their deaths!” His eyes flashed with anger. “The wraiths there… They were unconquerable. They were all going to die!”

“Those _wraiths_ ,” Llewellyn cut evenly, “were the Fomorians. You were right to deny the king’s request. It would have been leading lambs to slaughter.”

“It was already slaughter!” Tory said vehemently. “You don’t realize what you are walking into! Those cursed demons are greater than any one of us!”

“They are not greater than me,” Llewellyn said. An edge had crept into his voice. “And they were not greater than Orontu. He was only able to bind a handful of them, because they do not gather in full numbers on their own. With Chris to summon them, I will be able to bind the entire host to my will.”

“You will be dead before the final line is drawn,” he countered. “All of us will be! A handful is bad enough, but with the entire host on us…”

“What were their tactics?” Hector asked coolly. “How did it happen, when they attacked your band?”

“They called to us with voices,” he confessed. “They split our numbers, and devoured the others one by one.” He winced, as if trying to banish the memory. “Then they used the dead’s voices to lure more of us apart. They aren’t warriors. They’re animals. They bite and slash, like beasts. They’ll gut you while you lay there screaming. They are…” his voice trembled. “They are hell incarnate.”

Hector nodded. “We will be certain to stay together then, at all costs. When did they attack?”

Tory faltered. “When we entered the keep.”

“Was there a room, or a hall, with a seat in it? It may have looked nothing like a chair… A pedestal perhaps, or a raised mound?”

Knowledge pervaded his voice. “No, it was a chair, in a chamber below the earth. Carved of stone.”

This emboldened Hector. “Then we know what to look for. The Fomorians were a varied race, but they are all one people, and at one time, came from one stock. It is unlikely their buildings varied much, in the early days. We make for the lower levels, and stay together.” He looked to the others. “Is this understood? I care not whose voice you hear, calling to you. We must stay together.”

Chris swallowed nervously, even as a cold snake of fear twined in his gut. He may have been prepared for this, but it still felt as if he were on the edge of the cliff, trying his best not to shrink from jumping. Especially when Howie stepped to his side.

“Don’t worry,” she said happily. “They say dying is not all that bad.” She clapped Chris on the back, then moved toward Hector, who was assembling his weaponry. “Right then. What is my duty?”

Hector opened his mouth to snap at her, but Llewellyn swooped in. “Your duty is to protect me. If I die, the others have little chance. Do you think you can do that?”

She nodded. “Should not be a problem. You are little like me. How much trouble could you be?”

Chris saw Tory bite his tongue, but it was with reverence, as well as a desire to keep the peace. Llewellyn was now their only hope to survive what lay before them. Chris just hoped he knew what he was doing.

....

They crossed the gates silently. As Tory described, the entire span of lawn was empty, overgrown. It looked as if it had not been trodden in centuries. But the path to the door was clear, and paved. Tory went first, followed by Hector, Chris, Llewellyn and Howie. The silence weighed heavy, and Chris had to remind himself to breathe.

The keep rose, looming, like a black pillar against the clear blue sky. No window dotted the outer surface, a clue Chris knew would bode ill for them, once inside. As they came closer, he could see the stones were a medley of different cuts and shapes, piled and fused together with heat. The blackness of the stone was due to char, smears of ash painted like a poor attempt at uniformity. There was no uniformity about the structure, though. Towers spiked from odd places, roofs slanted and curved any angle they chose, and the doors—the great doors towards which they tread—were from two different molds, painted black like the rest of the edifice.

As they approached, Hector sacrificed one of his knives for a torch. He rummaged in the satchel at his belt and lighter-clicked the torch to flame.

“Once those doors open, we’ll be in it,” Tory said darkly.

“Then let’s be on with it!” Howie urged. “No use standing here!”

Hector looked back to the little Tinker with a gaze of almost pity. “She is right…” He turned his fellow knight. “Tory, this is your final chance to turn back.” He paused, letting the offer weigh in the air. “You have come with us this far, and proved your mettle. I would not think you a coward if you chose to return home, to the mortal world.”

For a moment Tory hesitated, glancing to Chris’ stone-set face at his side. Chris wondered who it was he saw—if it was him, or the faces of the fallen. Then his jaw set in determination. With decisive action, Tory stepped forward and yanked the handle. A mighty creak echoed through off the stones of the courtyard, and the great door swung wide, revealing a blackness darker than the night within.

Admiration flickered in Hector’s eye. And then, with bold purpose, he strode into the shadows of the keep.

Nothing changed. In the circle of torchlight, Chris could see the patchwork of stone continued along the floor. But the darkness pressed close, as if it were a very presence in itself. Hector held the torch aloft, illuminating a cave-like tunnel running deeper into the castle.

“Well, come on!” Howie reassured, pushing Chris forward.

He took a deep breath, then followed Tory into the blackness. Behind him, Llewellyn lit another torch, and they proceeded in the warm circles that staved off the umbrae. No spider webs dotted the corners or refuse lined the floor. But Chris felt a distinct sense of funereal decay stifling his lungs, and he fought to breathe after the fresh, open air of the forest. Feet shuffled in dust, kicking it up and adding to the feeling of suffocation. They passed unchallenged down the first hallway. Every scrape of shoe and clink of steel ricocheted off the walls until Chris knew if they weren’t already known, they would be soon.

When they reached the end of the first hall, they found the passageway divided in two—a staircase leading up, or a rough-hewn tunnel leading down. Hector immediately made for the tunnel, but Tory caught his arm. He shook his head vehemently. Their faces were cast in the blazing flame of the torch, and Chris saw Tory mouth,

“ _Up is down. We take stairs up, to go down_.”

Completely baffled, Chris was surprised when Hector did not hesitate, did not question. He made for the staircase leading up. Passing the junction, Chris thought he heard a rasping breath come from the bowels of the keep. He shook his head to clear the thought from his mind, and pressed on. Llewellyn followed, quiet and cautious.

The moment Howie’s feet touched the stair, the great door behind them swung shut. The clang reverberated like madness through the small passageway, and Howie looked up in shock. “I did nothing!” she whispered loudly.

Hector was already bounding down the stairs. “We are known. You must go!” he urged openly to Tory.

A woman’s shriek echoed down the hallway.

Hector did not stop. “ _Go now_!” he bellowed.

Tory did not need to be told again. He grabbed Chris’ wrist and yanked him forward, even as Chris protested, “We can’t just let him—”

“He’s made his choice,” Tory bit. “He will keep up or fall behind. But we must move.”

They raced up the stairs as fast as they could, with the shrieks spurring their feet forward. Hector and Howie brought up the rear. She staunchly fought beside him, slicing her hooked dagger through any hint of movement from the shadows. Chris dared not look back, turn his head to see what pursued them. The slick stone of the stairs was a hard climb, and they jutted at uneven spacing, causing more than one stumble Chris was certain would send him careening backwards. Llewellyn was nimbler than them all, and soon outpaced Chris on the winding rise.

Finally the boy reached Tory, and grabbed his sleeve. “We need to start descending!”

Tory shook his head in certainty. “No—up is down. The upper levels are the descent.”

Llewellyn’s eyes widened. “The parapets… You were headed downward!”

It was nonsense to Chris, but at the next divide, Tory once more chose the stairs.

“Shit,” Chris cursed, leaping up again. He didn’t know how much more of this he could take. His heart thudded in his chest as if it would burst, and as he rounded the next bend, a jolt of pain spiked his side. He cried out, and doubled over. Tory looked back with knowledge and terror in his eyes. “Chris!”

Llewellyn spun on his heels and leapt down four stairs in a bound. He landed with perfect grace, scooping Chris upright. “You must run,” he said quietly. “Can you do this?”

And then it was there—the warmth, the heat that he knew from the storm. But it was here now, in the blind terror of darkness. The pain in his side did not recede, but he straightened in spite of it, sure in his ability. “Yes.”

“Then run!” Tory called desperately as the circle of Hector’s torch began rounding the corner behind them. “Run, Chris!”

Llewellyn nodded. “Run—now.”

Chris ran. His heart thudded and hammered like a pounding war drum, and adrenaline raced in his veins like molten steel. His feet hit the stairs two at a time, and he kept easy pace with the warrior and the sidhe. It was incredible; he felt invincible. Pain spiked in his body, but he did not mind it. His breath came in gasps, but he did not collapse. He ran as if he were made for nothing else but to run, and wave after wave, he found the strength to press on.

At last, as the rising sun after a night of terror, the stairway opened and a wide, open chamber met them. Tory came to halt; Chris crashed into him from behind, and collapsed at last. Llewellyn whirled, watching the growing gleam of torchlight of the advancing rear guard. “Hector! We’ve reached the top!” he cried with uncharacteristic frenzy.

Chris scanned the room quickly, catching only the glimpses of skeletal remains strewn about an earthen floor. It was odd, this high up, that there would be earth for a floor…

“They are herding us!” Hector’s booming voice echoed up the passageway. “Keep eyes for a—”

At that moment, a black, scorched hand appeared from the blackness. Faster than Chris could recoil, it grabbed his ankle.

Chris cried out, kicking at the thing. Tory was faster, swinging down to slice it clean with an arc of his blade. Bone and tendon severed, and a great howl arose from the very floor itself. Chris scrambled to rise, but not quickly enough as another hand darted to snatch at his knee; behind him, Llewellyn cried out, and Tory whirled in all directions, hacking and slashing at as many as he could, raging at the faceless demons like a drunken dervish. Freed, Chris rose and drew his knife, hacking at any sign of movement from the shadows. Hector’s footfalls grew closer, and Howie’s strident cry. Chris’ eyes darted to the door, afraid to find her wounded and falling, but she stood boldly, covering Hector’s legs from a similar swarm of attack as he fought the claws and talons above her, swinging the torch wide to ward them back.

“Yip!” she cried happily. “I like your style, _brontobrur_!”

“Fire…” Chris realized, even as he turned to hack another. “They’re afraid of fire!” he called.

A hissing voice answered him, layered with bass like the rumble of thunder. “ _Fire_ ,” it taunted. “ _They fear fire…_ ”

Chris nearly dropped his knife in surprise. It was a mistake—at the first sign of weakness, a hand struck forward, knocking it from his grip. He cursed aloud in pain and surprise, but Tory whirled and caught him as a clawed hand swiped at the air where he’d been just a split-second before. Tory kept an arm around his waist, spinning him back toward Llewellyn and letting him go between them. He fell, backpedaling, and grabbed the weapon from the ground. They were all in the giant room now, Howie and Hector separated from them by a myriad of shifting shapes and shadows. Despite the voice’s challenge, Tory wielded his torch as a second weapon, jabbing at wraiths with renewed purpose.

Then a form became discernible amid the smoking blackness—a terrible form, half human, but instead of a face, its head came to a pointed wolf snout. Dead eyes stared back at them as it emerged from the fray to stand before Tory, who swiped with mad determination at the smaller threat, keeping the hands at bay.

And then the beast sprang.

Faster than anything Chris had ever seen, faster even than his eyes could follow, it barreled through Tory’s outstretched arm and jarred him round the back of the knee. He buckled but did not fall, and slit the beast’s throat as it turned to snap. Chris cried out.

That was his mistake. As if just noticing him, the surrounding shadows began to well, ebb and flow, and in the blackness, more figures could be seen.

“Tory!” he called in desperation.

A breath, and Tory was by his side, swinging his sword wide, flying faster than Chris thought possible. “Go!” he screamed. “The stairs are the way!”

Chris scrambled to duck a viper that snapped at him wildly, scanning the sweeping edge of torchlight. Then he caught it—at the far side of the chamber, the glimmer of a deeper darkness, a passageway. “Forward!” he called to the others. “We have to go forward!”

Enraged at the outcry, a second wolf leapt through Tory’s swinging blade and snapped his jaws, catching Chris’ sleeve and yanking like a dog with a carcass. Tory saw it and brought his blade down with a shout onto the beast’s neck, and it severed through completely, despite being thicker than Chris’ middle. As its head tumbled to floor, a skull spilled out, pale in the flickering light. As Chris saw what it was, he nearly vomited in terror.

It was a head—a human head. Its neck severed completely, eyes wide and catlike, with cold, white fangs locked in a permanent hiss. Blood spilled from the sever, and it pooled, black and thick, on the even blacker earth.

“They’re… They’re people!” he cried in nausea. “Inside the heads!”

Tory didn’t care. “Lead to the stairs!” he insisted, dodging another attack and barely avoiding being snapped in two. “I can’t hold much longer!”

Chris scrambled over the dead body and into the illumination beyond. “This way!” he shouted. “Follow my voice!”

“ _Follow my voice!_ ” An eerie echo ricocheted in all directions, like the very shadows had stolen his voice and bounced it back to his companions in a dozen different directions. He saw Tory wheel, trying to find him in the chaos, and Hector and Llewellyn doubled their efforts, fighting toward the opposite wall from where he stood.

“Damn it, no! Forward! You have to go forward!” he cried angrily.

When it made little difference, Chris cursed under his breath, scrambling for something, anything to let his companions know where to turn. He found a piece of bone with his fingers, and threw it straight at Tory.

Tory whirled and sliced it in half as it came at him.

“Follow the bones!” he said urgently. He picked up another scrap and threw it; this time it skittered across the stones at Tory’s feet.

Understanding bloomed in the warrior’s eyes, even as he tumbled and rolled to avoid the jaws of an angry beast. He turned and forced his way through the melee of black shapes. “Get the others, Chris!”

Chris nodded and picked up a smaller piece, praying he could make it across the room to where Howie and Hector fought in tandem. He threw it with a sideways flick, and lost it in the shadows above. But in a moment, Hector turned in recognition.

“Follow the bones!” Chris called again, grabbing his next piece.

To his dismay, the second echo followed, “ _Follow the bones!”_ followed by a myriad of tiny pieces flying at the others from all directions. But the look on Hector’s face as he fended them off said he knew—he turned and made way the same direction as Tory. Howie followed, keeping pace with difficulty. Chris threw another piece, and a dozen more followed from the faceless demons, but Tory and Hector could no longer be fooled. They followed the first to come, and with little error made steady progress across the room.

When they reached the stairs at last, more than two dozen bodies lay strewn on the dirt floor. Hector outpaced Tory, and reached him first. “Well done!” he cried with a smile of exuberance. Llewellyn came in soon after, followed by Tory, winded and clutching at the back of his neck.

“Are you hurt?” Howie asked worriedly.

Tory shook his head. “Just grazed. We’ve got to get to the throne room,” he urged to Hector. “More are coming.”

Hector nodded. “Lead the way.”

Tory hefted his sword and stepped forward. Hector took the rear guard up the stairs, in tandem with Howie, who was proving to be quite a swordsman. Chris marveled at it—they were still alive. This was the stuff of legends, and they were still alive. He bounded up the stairs with renewed hope.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Little nervous about posting this chapter, just because it has the final reveal for Tory, and what happened to the other thanes. There's a lot more detail to the story written out, it just... didn't seem to fit, here. I wanted to keep the pace moving instead of bogging it down with flashbacks, so I did my best to capture their deaths/fate succinctly. Let me know if it's not enough, or confusing, and I'll be happy to add more. :)


	27. Sacrifice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chris makes the final step.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Multi-chapter update today. Be sure to start with Chapter 26 if you followed the update link. :)
> 
> Chapter songs are [The Arcane Dominion](https://youtu.be/bw7lrcxZ6_o) by Eluveitie and [Breath](https://youtu.be/9GbZbLJExpA) by Breaking Benjamin.

When they broke the top at last, Chris knew this was it.

A large room came into view, larger than the previous, and as they entered, blue-black torches leapt to life, throwing the blackness into deeper contrast and casting their shadows out across the hard earth floor like wraiths of their own. Above, a giant grotesque chandelier of deer bone hung down over a single stone monolith carved into a crude kind of chair. The intricacies of the carving were lost on Chris as a figure materialized, reclining on the seat—large, like a great bear, but its stance was human. Its hand rested on its chin, as a spectator witnessing a provoking play.

Howie’s voice broke the silence. “There it is!”

“Yes,” a deep growl answered her. “And yet you do not run… Foolish things.”

Chris fumbled. Shadows scrambled from the staircase, launching at them in ravenous anger.

“Cease!” The booming voice bellowed and growled.

The shadows disintegrated before their eyes, as a wave of sand washed away in the wind. Chris turned back to the throne—the bear stood with a hand extended, banishing the demons with a gesture.

“You enter my castle, then do not search for an exit,” the voice rumbled through the floor, and up through Chris’ feet. He clung to his knife, uncertain. “You search for my throne, and yet do not carry any device to destroy it. You bring a child with you. You are an odd band of men.”

“And woman!” Howie interjected.

A rumble, like a laugh, rolled through the room. “Who are you, and what do you seek?”

Llewellyn stepped forward then, before the others could speak. “We come in search of star. We find none. We wish to create one.”

The bear’s head tilted, and its tongue extended, lolling across its lips. “Why a star?”

“It is what I saw…” Tory moved to Llewellyn’s side, bold and strong, with the fire of hate in his eyes. “When your kin slew mine.”

This amused the bear, and the walls shook with its laughter. “Such foolish fey. Why not a star, is your answer.” Feet larger than any fey or mortal alive descended the throne, and a hand reached up, lacing through the bear fur. With seamless grace, the head seemed to fall away like a hood, revealing beneath not flesh, but another head. Human, with slitted eyes and a delicate nose. Ruddy lips pulled apart in a feral smile, revealing bared fangs. She was beautiful—for it was a woman, beneath the fur and jowls of the beast, lithe and strong as the greatest Amazonian, taller even still than the tallest fey. She looked down on them with hunger in her eye. “Clear the way then, _rakshasa._ For tonight we feast on dreams.”

The roiling shadows settled, creating a ring around them and blocking the door. The woman gestured down to the floor with sweeping grace. “Draw your star, then. Let us see what your kin did, as they lay screaming like dogs.”

Tory’s hand moved to his gun, but he held it, and did not draw.

It broadened the smile on the woman’s face. “Be warned. One aggression, and you will wish I had gutted you first.”

Llewellyn gestured to the others to lower their weapons. “Thank you, mighty one. Your generosity for doomed souls is admirable.”

“Ha!” she laughed aloud. “You are funny, little one.” She licked her lips, reminiscent of the bear only minutes ago. “Come sit with me, and we will watch this spectacle together.”

Hector made to move, but Llewellyn stepped forward, undaunted. He walked directly up to her, and smiled back at her laughter. “Of course.”

Chris’ gut dropped. Llewellyn knew the ward—if he had to draw it from memory…

His fears were confirmed when the sidhe turned and smiled at him. “Now, Chris,” he said, looking him directly in the eye. “Draw the star.”

Fear coiled like a snake in his gut. But just as quickly, he felt the tug of something—the connection, the heat Llewellyn had warmed him with earlier. As the tiniest spark that can be fanned to a blaze by a wind, Llewellyn’s words blew across him and heated him from the core. He knew now, for certain, that he remembered the ward. Knew every piece, every nuance. All he had to do was pick up a bit of charcoal, and draw.

He found a bit of char already clutched in his fingers, remnants from the room below. He walked to the center of the room, despite a move of protest from Tory, who was stopped by a hand from Hector.

Chris turned, and with all the confidence in the world, said simply, “It’s going to be okay.”

The flash of unsettled surprise in Tory’s eyes was plain, but Chris could not concentrate on it now. He had to put his full concentration on the design Llewellyn had taught him, last night by the light of the campfire. Now, by the light of otherworldly torches, he wondered if he was always meant for this.

He began with the circle. A hiss of breath ghosted across the stone, sending dust flying. It was the breath of the monsters waiting to devour him, but Chris ignored it and moved on. Cross, _ehwaz_ , _berkana_ , another circle. With steady hands he moved, until the full pattern began to take shape.

The silence around him began to press in. He came to a series of runes, and hesitated.

“It is a beautiful star,” Llewellyn’s quiet voice drifted through to him. Chris glanced up to find the sidhe sitting at the woman’s feet. Her hand, unnaturally long, stretched down to grasp him by the nape of the neck. They sat there, Fomorian and sidhe, as still as a portrait.

But the warmth in Llewellyn’s eyes flooded to him, and reassured him. Again he felt his thoughts clear, the terror and uncertainty roll back. The thoughts were his own—the memory of the circle, the runes he had made last night in what seemed an age ago. But now he saw it clearly before him, like photographic memory.

He nodded and bent again, deciding the pattern with no more second-thought.

The woman’s voice slipped through the air. “He is bound to you, little one. What a strange thing…”

It meant nothing at the time to Chris, though it rang familiar, like the voice in a dream. He was nearing the end now. He had no idea what would happen when he finished. He didn’t care. All that mattered now was completing the circle.

At last, when all that was left was the crescent moon, a jolt shook the room.

“You wicked things,” the woman’s hiss rolled through his being. “You will summon us… For what, I wonder?” She did not sound angry, or disturbed. Merely annoyed. “You will get more than you wish.”

Chris finished the moon.

At once, the room went dark. A flutter that sounded like wings, growls and howls and snarls surrounded him in the darkness. In panic, he called out for Tory, but his voice was cast back in a thousand pitiful reverberations. He rose, careful not to disturb the earth beneath his feet, and stood in a whirlwind of ancient beings.

A harsh voice shrieked through the night, and a form barreled into him as the lights suddenly sparked again, revealing the others pinned and down, and Llewellyn hanging mid-air, suspended by the neck as the bear-woman clutched him in fury. “Heathens!” she shrieked “Fiends and tormentors! What is it you intend to do now, little one!” She cracked his neck harshly. “What do you intend to do as I suck the life from you!”

In a blink, Llewellyn said: “This.”

A sonic boom blasted through the room. The creatures howled, the earth shook and the torches erupted it molten flame. The woman’s shriek rent the air, shaking Chris to the core. Wind tore through his clothing, battering him to the ground. A heavy form landed beside him, and Chris saw in horror it was Howie, blood streaming down her unconscious face. He yelled, then was jolted as a large hand gripped him by the arm, hauling him to his feet. Hector’s wild eyes stared back at him in the chaos.

“Complete the moon!” he said with hastened ferocity. “Make it full! It will take you back!”

“But—”

“This is my fate, not yours,” he growled. “Do it!”

Hector tossed him roughly back toward the ward; for a single moment, Chris hesitated. Then with determination, he leapt toward the center. He clutched his fingers around the char, rounding the belly of the moon into a full circle. Electricity jolted through his skin, and he cried out, unable to think. He rose and whirled—chaos and darkness swirled around him, and in silhouettes, he could see Hector fighting like a dervish, slicing through the shadows welling around them. Turning to the throne, he saw Llewellyn crumpled on the step, his neck twisted sickly at an angle. It was done, the battle was lost.

Like a great, hulking beast, a form came through the chaos, barreling into him and sending him reeling back through the ward. His last thought before he hit the earth and lost consciousness completely, was that it was never supposed to end this way.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Language note: the term the Fomorian uses, _rakshasa_ , is the name of a group of demons in Hindu mythology. (More info on [rakshasas](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Rakshasa).)


	28. Without You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The endgame.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter song is [Without You](https://youtu.be/XdA5c8S0DDY) by Breaking Benjamin.
> 
> Multi-chapter update. Be sure to start with Chapter 26 if you followed the update link. :)

There was darkness. Distant voices called to him; shrieks, growls, roars. A woman’s voice, small and desperate. An even tone, a child’s voice, calling him awake.

When Chris opened his eyes, he did not comprehend. 

Bookshelves met him, row upon row of leather-bound volume. A light shone from behind, pale and sickly. The gilded titles gleamed in its glow. _Common Sense. Kidnapped. 20,000 Leagues Under the Sea._

With a jolt, he sat up. Around him, Hector’s musky study sat untouched. The desk still in the corner, a pile of books leaning against its leg. The lamp still glowed, the source of the golden light. He lay on the rich green carpet, blinking in dense incomprehension.

And then, he noticed an arm across his knee. A bloody arm.

In horror, Chris followed the arm up to the body, crumpled in a heap at his side. With trembling fingers, he reached out, moving the cloak away from its face.

Tory.

“Oh my god…” Chris breathed. His face was pale, bloodless. His eyes were closed, and his breathing was labored, as if every inhale was a battle all its own. Quickly Chris searched for wounds, so disoriented he could not think what had happened, where they were, why any of this was happening. All he knew was the desperate need, the imperative, to save his boyfriend. “Hang on, Tory,” he said desperately. “Please…” 

Then he found it—unfastening his cloak revealed the wound. Chris stifled a panicked cry. Gashes and wounds tore through his shoulders, but the greatest of them, a piercing wound that bled steadily onto the quiet carpet, punctured through his back just below his ribs.

“Oh god…” he whispered. He had only a moment to think, and he knew what he had to do. He rose, scrambling through the papers of Hector’s desk for the cord, the lifeline. He found it and punched the buttons with numb, fumbling fingers. Within moments, he heard a voice.

“911. What is your emergency?”

....

Chris wasn’t prepared. He wasn’t prepared for the sirens, the medics bursting through the front door of the bookshop, the wires and gadgets and clamoring voices surrounding Tory, pushing him out into the hallway. He wasn’t ready for the words, “Massive puncture wound,” “Blood transfusion,” or “Critical condition.” He wasn’t ready for his own medical attention, blood pressure and pulse and bandages on his arm. 

But worst of all, he wasn’t ready for the questions. “Do you know your name?” “Where were you attacked?” and the unanswerable, “Do you know this man?”

“I… Yes…” he answered, half-numb in shock. None of this seemed real, like a dream he would wake from any moment. “He… His name is Tory Rask. He’s my boyfriend.”

He rode in the back of the ambulance. Tory lay prone on the stretcher, fixed to oxygen and half a dozen other machines. The paramedics moved like Tinkers, clockwork precision. 

“Are you doing okay?” one asked.

Chris did not answer. “Is he going to die?”

The man pressed his lips grimly. “We’re doing everything we can.”

That was it. Everything they could for a being over three hundred years old, a being Chris had sacrificed his heart for, the sole survivor of a fey band who penetrated a fortress of Fomorians and challenged their leader. The man who had followed him without question into an alternate universe. The man he loved.

Unbidden, the morning in the bookstore, when Llewellyn had challenged him to a game of chess, played through his mind.

_I'll allow you the rook, if you sacrifice your knight._

_He is bound to you, little one…_

_I'll die before I leave him._

The image of Tory’s pale face, strapped with an oxygen mask, covered in blood, seared into his mind. That was it. For a chance at an endgame, Chris had sacrificed his knight, his guardian and love. 

And there, in the hallways of the hospital, surrounded by doctors and cold, hard machines, Chris broke down and wept.

....

In the blackness of the great hall, all had fallen still. A castle abandoned to the decay of time, covered in dust and blood and charred ash, it sat as a derelict beacon of an ancient race, a forgotten time when gods of chaos strode the earth and claimed it their domain.

In the center, cast in the cruel light of a single blazing torch, Hector Raethgard stood silent. At his feet, a fallen Tinker lay with hooked blade still held with unwavering determination. From the shadows, a cold voice hissed, “What would you ask of us?”

“Protect us,” Hector’s voice rang clear and strong. “Guard us, and kill any who would enter.” He turned then, casting his gaze to the throne. A boy sat upon it, with hair shocked white. It hung down over his eyes, dark eyes that peered out into the night with a gleam of triumph. Hector nodded at the young man. “Beyond death, guard us.”

A small smile came to Llewellyn’s face. “Our work has begun.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Final chapter coming soon. :)


	29. Last Train Home

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter song is [Last Train Home](https://youtu.be/2HoDRbZvOcM) by Ryan Star.

Two weeks later to the day, a knock came on Chris’ door.

He rose from where he sat on the couch, stowing his cup of coffee on the bookshelf before reaching for the door. When it swung open, he found Tory smiling back at him.

“Hey,” his voice flowed easily.

“Hey,” Chris stepped aside, letting him in. “No Darrell today?”

Tory shook his head. “He has an interview this morning—Harold and Meeks, if you can believe it.”

Chris couldn’t help but picture Darrell in a suit,  and smiled in appreciation. He retrieved his coffee and turned. “How are you feeling?”

Tory shrugged. “Better than yesterday, which was better than last week. The doctors say I’m recovering _remarkably fast_ ,” he said with playful wonder.

Chris smiled in return, though below the surface, he was just as amazed as Tory’s doctors. It was like seeing a ghost walking, standing in his apartment. Tory had pulled from dying to stabilized in a matter of hours, up and walking in less than a week, and home just four days ago. It was… surreal. But nothing about his life in the last month made sense. “It must be your fairy blood,” he tried to laugh.

It was meant in jest, but Tory’s smile fell a bit. There was a pause, and he wrestled with the words. “Chris…”

He looked up—Tory approached.

“I know we haven’t… We haven’t talked, about things. What happened,” he clarified. “I woke up in the hospital, and you were there. But you didn’t say anything. Then Darrell came and got me, and he’s been a god-awful nanny ever since… I thought about calling, but I wanted to talk to you in person.”

Guilt welled in Chris. He knew he should have met this head-on, but his knowledge of his fault kept him away. What was there left to say? Tory had been right, from the very beginning. It was because of Chris he nearly died, and only by a miracle of fate he survived at all. “I… I’m sorry, Tory. I’ve wanted to… to talk to you, too.”

Tory lowered his head, trying to catch Chris’ gaze. “It's not your fault, Chris.”

That did catch his attention. He glanced up, and was caught in Tory’s earnest eyes.

“I walked through those doors all on my own, back at the fortress. You did good—exactly what you should have. It was you who made the mirror that brought us home. I don’t know how you knew, but…”

He’d suspected it, from the moment the memories had flooded back through him, after he collapsed on the hospital chair. The change in design had shifted the ward, with whatever force of magic he had wielded in that moment. How they ended up back in the bookstore study, Chris had accepted he might never know. But he did know who was responsible for saving his life. “Hector told me how. He told me to change the design, and the mirror appeared.”

Concern flew across Tory’s brow. “Are you sure?”

An attempt at sarcasm. “I can’t even remember what the thing looked like, now.”

Tory’s hand clenched, and his voice darkened with an unidentifiable emotion. “It was Hector that pushed me, toward you. Right before I blacked out, when we came through. He knocked me with the butt of his knife and shoved me away. I thought…”

It was a dagger in Chris’ heart. “You thought he tried to kill you.”

Unable to speak, Tory only nodded.

“I’m very glad he didn’t,” Chris said plainly. The thought of Tory dying brought forth all the emotions he’d cycled through in those first few hours back, seeing Tory's pale face covered in blood and strapped to the ambulance machines. It had felt like his own heart had been ripped from his chest, left to die on the floor of the Fomorian fortress. “It’s amazing, how death puts things in perspective. I just wish I’d realized it sooner.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean this,” he threw up his hands. “After everything that happened, I’d give anything to be back where we were, before this… before my world was turned upside down, before the others died and you nearly did. How can I be the only one to come out in one piece? I didn’t know anything…” His voice fell, and he couldn’t keep the hoarseness from edging in. “I’d give it all to be back with you, that night you offered to come. I wish I could tell Hector no, come home to you on the couch watching Star Trek reruns. I want our happiness back.”

With gentleness, Tory’s hand reached out, resting on his shoulder. “…We can’t go back, Chris. The others… I don’t know if they survived. Maybe they did, by some miracle. But we can’t change what happened there. We can’t change our choices.” A deep breath, strong and warm. “All we can do is go on with what we’ve learned. Remember the dead, honor their memory. And live the lives we’ve been given.”

It wasn’t enough. “But—”

“Do you remember how things were, before we left?” Tory challenged. “I was lying to you about my nature, and you were eyeing your boss at work. We may have been happy, but it’s nothing compared to the happiness we can have now, if we just give it one more shot.”

The words soaked through Chris’ being. “You mean…”

“I told you, Chris—I love you. I know that now more than ever. I’ll be there till the day you die, if you let me.”

Chris drew a shaky breath, almost unable to believe what he was hearing. Tory's hand came up to rest on the side of his neck, drawing his gaze back.

“I’m not afraid of this anymore,” he murmured. “I don’t know what I’ll do, when you’re gone. But I know I’d rather have what we can, while we can.  Or I’ll regret it for the rest of my life.”

A shuddering sigh rolled through him. This was it—the point of no return. And strangely, all he felt was hope. He held Tory’s hand in his own, pressed against his chest. “I love you, too. And I swear,” he breathed, “I swear, I’ll never doubt you again. I want every single part of you, fey and human,” he vowed.  “And I’ll be there with you to the day I die. If you’ll have me.”

Earnest joy warmed Tory’s smile, and he scooped Chris in his arms and smothered him in a kiss. “Yes,” he beamed. “ _S_ _ole_ , yes.”

....

That night before bed, Chris sat on the edge of the mattress, scanning the parchment documents with sad acceptance.

Tory noticed his somber expression, and came to rest beside him. “What’s that?”

Chris held the inked paper in his hands. “It… It’s the deed to the bookstore. I found it when I went back to clean up.” It hadn’t seemed real to Chris until that moment—seeing the documents spread on the desk as if the owner had just stepped out for a cup of coffee. But the emptiness of the little store had been the final weight that crushed Chris’ hope in the certainty that Hector, and Llewellyn, were not coming back. “…He gave me the bookstore.”

Tory’s brows furrowed. “What do you mean?”

“Hector,” Chris clarified. “When I went back, I found all these papers sitting out on his desk.” He didn’t say it, but his heart had leapt then, hoping they had somehow returned, despite all odds. But the dates on the documents were September, a week before they left for Amaranth. “It’s all there—deed, bank accounts, everything. He even had it notarized.”

“That son of a bitch,” Tory said with good-natured amazement. “He was always one step ahead, wasn’t he.”

Chris swallowed the lump welling in his throat. “At least with me,” he managed. “Do you think… Do you think it was his plan all along, to kick me back here when they were done?”

Tory read the sorrow in his voice, and he sat up, wrapping an arm around his bare shoulders. “No…” He pressed a kiss to skin. “I think he was prepared, if you didn’t want to stay. But he liked you. He wouldn’t do all this,” he nodded to the paperwork, “if he didn’t. You two…” He spoke with quiet warmth, “You two shared something. You really did get each other. He’d be an idiot not to hope you’d stay.”

With a small smile, Chris planted a kiss on Tory’s cheek. “But I was already taken.”

Tory grinned back, kissing his mouth in return. “Yep. By a goddamn soldier.”

The kiss sparked fire in him, and he let the papers slip out of his hands and back on the nightstand. He brought his mouth to Tory’s, challenging with a kiss of his own. Fire spread from their lips to their bodies, until Chris had Tory pinned beneath him, careful not to put weight on the big man’s shoulders. “No, not a soldier,” he breathed happily. Hands ran down across the sharp edge of Tory’s hip, to the soft flesh of his thigh beneath his boxers. “A knight.” Another kiss, longer, lingering. “My knight.”

The words ignited something in Tory, and he pulled Chris back for another. " _Meus mortalis_ ,” he murmured against his mouth. _My mortal._

Chris moaned, grinding his hips in slow torture against the man beneath him. This wasn’t fair—it wasn’t fair what Tory did to him, without even trying. How much his arms felt like home, now more than ever. And when Tory slid a hand between them, freeing both their cocks to rut against each other, Chris knew he wouldn’t last long. They’d been through too much, lost too much, for this to be anything else.

“Let go, babe,” Tory rasped in his ear. “I'm here. Just let go.”

He came with a shuddering groan, Tory only seconds behind him.

Afterward, they lay together in content quiet. Chris listened to the steady rise and fall of Tory’s chest, the even cadence of his heartbeat thudding in his ear. They were a mess, both of them, but he didn’t feel any need to move. A hand carded his hair lazily, and Chris let his hand wander the plain of Tory's body.

Finally, Tory’s words broke the stillness.

“So… How do you feel about Canada?”

Chris glanced up, casually curious. “Canada?”

Tory shrugged. “Just thinking. My doctors are getting a little too enthusiastic about my recovery. One mentioned wanting to run some tests.”

“So?” Chris said.

“So, do you know what my DNA would look like under a microscope?”

Chris shook his head.

Tory laughed. “Neither do I. I’m thinking it’d be a good time to get out of dodge… Just for a while, until the curiosity dies down. What do you think?”

Chris’ heart had begun to sink into the floor, but he didn’t want to show it. Instead, he nodded. “… I think that’d be wise.”

Tory noticed the fall in his voice, and laughed. “I mean, with you, dummy.”

“I… You want me to come with you?”

“Why not? The bookstore’s worth more just sitting there than as an actual business—you said so yourself. Darrell’s getting a job, and I think New York City can survive a few months without my bagel cart…”

Chris let the idea roll through his mind, gaining momentum as his enthusiasm sparked. It would feel good to get away for a while, away from the memories and shattered reality that lingered everywhere he turned, here. With Tory at his side, he knew he could face anything. He knew it didn’t make sense, and probably never would. But somehow, in search of something greater than himself, he had actually discovered his own innate ability to survive. He bore new wounds for the journey, but he felt a confidence he’d never known before, certain they would heal in time. And this—this incredible being beneath him, this man—had redeemed him. They had redeemed each other. There was not a place, person or truth in the world that would tear them apart.

“Canada it is.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...And there we are. :) This isn't the last you'll see of Chris and Tory in the KoA series, but for now their part in the story is over. I'll add a chapter after this with notes on creatures, deleted scenes, and other supplemental things, but this ends the official story. For those interested - the theme for Rook was [The Star](https://teachmetarot.com/part-iii-major-arcana/lesson-7/the-star-xvii-upright/) card from the Rider-Waite tarot deck.
> 
> Thank you again for reading! I love comments and hearing people's impressions, good and bad, so feel free to drop me a note below if it suits. :) I'm also active on [Tumblr](https://gwyxion.tumblr.com/) and [DeviantArt](http://gwydionx.deviantart.com/).
> 
> Next up is a jump back to Colorado to catch up with Jace and Morgan. For those of you who remember mention of Rinna's brother, this is his cue. *evil grin* Raze involves a fey assassin, a mortal MMA fighter, and the hunt for Hector Raethgard. Chapters start going up soon.


	30. Deleted Scenes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A few scenes that didn't make the cut, but are fun anyway. Mostly fluff.

**Scene #1: Third Date**

_Chris & Tory’s third date. Fits after Chris' first day at work in Chapter 6.  
_

When Chris made it home that night, a familiar figure stood in the hallway.

“Hey,” Tory greeted, pushing off the wall where he rested.

His smile was contagious, and Chris felt his body relax, just by proximity. He crossed the last few yards while pulling out his keys. “Hey—what’s the occasion?” He nodded down to the full grocery sack Tory held.

Tory laughed. “Darrel had a date and kicked me out for the night.” He followed Chris in through the door, turning to watch him swing it closed. “I think he’s punishing me for keeping him quarantined last night.”

Chris huffed and set his keys on the counter. Tory hoisted the bag up beside it. Chris turned, and found himself wrapped in Tory’s arms and embraced with a kiss.

He sighed in appreciation. The kiss was lazy, familiar. Two days, and he was already so wrapped in Tory, he couldn’t think straight. “...What was that for?”

Tory pulled a roguish smile. “I need a reason?”

Chris kissed him again. “On second thought, no reason necessary.”

“Because I do happen to have the entire season of Firefly here,” Tory chuckled, rubbing his thumbs soothingly across Chris’s skin. “ And I was thinking… I am a very good cook.”

“Really?” Chris baited.

“Mm-hmm. And I may have stopped for ingredients for Dhal Curry on my way over…”

Chris’s grin spread wider. He pulled Tory in for a final kiss, and stepped away for the living room.“I’ll get the remote.”

 

**Scene #2: Howie and Tory**

_The original draft had this short conversation between Howie and Tory in while they were staying at the inn. Ultimately I felt like the point was already made without Howie having to hit him over the head with it. XP Still like this one, though._

“You are _brontobrur_ , too,” Howie muttered, looking up at Tory with keen eyes.

Tory’s jaw clenched. “I’m nothing like Hector,” he growled. “I don’t sacrifice other people just to salve my own wounds.”

“But you already have,” she scolded. “You have sacrificed _him_.”

He followed her line of sight to the others—Chris stood conversing easily over the packs with Hector, who offered him a roguish smile in return.

“He loves you, you idiot,” Howie said quietly. “But do not expect him to trust you if you keep keeping lies.”

Tory bit his lip. Her words stung, even through the gentleness with which she said them. And he didn't have an answer.

**Scene #3: Fortress Flashbacks**

Expanded fortress flashbacks. Paints a clearer picture of what happened to Tory's group.

_Demeter’s broken body on the threshold, slashed through, neck twisted, eyes open in death. Bait in the trap, though they didn’t know it._

_Tulios’ rage, shouting that he be damned before he let a monster take one of his own and live._

_Mera and Quix joining him across the threshold. Just the Aesir left, Tor and Leif and Bër. Tor crossing the gate, knowing division would destroy them. Leif and Bër following behind._

_The bloodstained face of Mera, a Valkyrie if there ever was one, fighting to her last breath._

_Bër shouting in agony, spitting curses in blood at the monsters as they gutted him_

_Quix trapped under a pile of collapsed rubble, body broken, struggling to breathe. “Go!” he’d gasped. “Run, Tor! Save them!” Quix’s screams echoed off the walls as Tor ran with unshed tears of rage._

_Leif and Tulios, side by side, surrounded by the dead. Leif lit the corpses on fire, giving them a chance to escape._

_Running ahead of the shadow, leaping down stairways—a star through the cracks lead them outward. Tulios cried out in rage, and Leif turned. Tulios was pulled down into the darkness, and Leif launched at them with a roar._

_The wind of the parapet, throwing himself into the courtyard below with a scream.  
_

 

**Scene #4: Reuniting**

_Originally the reunion scene in Chapter 29 was a lot longer, but got cut for pacing. Still, I loved the more lighthearted dynamics in this scene. So including it. :)_

Chris pulled closer, pressing his hips against Tory’s. He felt his own hands slip down the hard chest, feeling every beat, every curve of muscled flesh. As hands anticipated his motion, guiding his hips closer, a rolling rhythm settled; pressure rose in his blood, and he felt his jeans getting tighter, grinding against an equally large bulge in Tory’s pants. Their tongues danced in a beautiful, swirling mess of rising passion and unmasked desire. The heat was incredible, unattainable. Then Tory’s fingers found the button of his collar, and his shirt began to fall open. When it was done, Tory smiled with earnest satisfaction. He leaned down, flicking a tongue over Chris’ nipple.

Chris moaned. This wasn’t fair—it wasn’t fair what Tory did to him, without even trying. “I want it… you…” Chris gasped. “God… Please, god I want you…”

“How?” Tory asked with a thick voice.

Chris rolled gently, pulling Tory atop him. He spread his legs wide; his pajama pants stretched, but Tory was straddled above him, ass spread beneath fabric. Chris rolled his hips upward and lay a hand around Tory’s neck, pulling him downward for a soft, sensual kiss. “Like this,” he murmured. “I want to see you. I want you to ride me… If you think you can,” he qualified.

Tory’s heated breath exhaled across his cheek, and he pushed back against Chris’ hips, grinding his ass into the now painfully confined bulge. “Don’t worry, babe. I’m more than able.” He reached down, and fingers found the elastic of Chris’ pants. Chris sighed as the pressure was released, and his cock emerged, straight and erect, like a pillar rising from the dark patch of fur. Tory lifted his hips, and slid the pants down Chris’ hips. Then he bent and stole another kiss, guiding Chris’ hands to the fly of his jeans. “I’m gonna make you work for it, though,” he smiled.

Chris’ breath trembled, but he didn’t argue. It was enough to see Tory’s smile, feel the roll of his hips and the wet abrasion of his tongue sliding up his jaw as Tory lathed his neck and bit at his ear. He made quick work of the jeans, and forced the fabric down. Tory’s hips were larger than his, and it fascinated Chris, feeling the movement of muscle beneath skin. It made Chris’ cock throb in anticipation. He pried his jeans loose, and Tory lifted his feet one by one, until he sat entirely naked atop him.

“Like this?” Tory teased, rocking back against Chris’ cock.

Involuntarily bucking, Chris grabbed onto Tory’s waist, trying to keep steady. “God, yes,” he managed.

“Good.” He grinned. “Then I should probably get the lube.” He rose without prequel, leaving an empty space of cold against Chris’ skin.

Chris sighed, and flopped his arms down in frustration. “You’re horrible.”

He returned soon enough, and with simple grace mounted Chris again. Bending down to suckle his neck a moment, Tory murmured, “It’s a good thing you love me.”

It was quiet, gentle, but earnest. Chris smiled in gratitude—he did love Tory. He loved every inch of him, every touch and taste and smell. He loved the laughter in his eyes, his easy manner of speaking, his grace and soft compassion, his fire and his moods. It didn’t matter what lay ahead of them, or how long they had, or even what lay behind. He loved Tory. Without thinking, he turned to catch Tory’s lips with his own. “You know I do,” he whispered back.

Tory’s smile widened, and he set to work with the lube. “Now…” he wondered, rubbing gently across the swollen slit of Chris’ cock. “Is this what you had in mind?”

Chris grunted in unmet need. He felt the friction, saw Tory’s hand ghost over his own cock, tugging and winding himself up. Chris’ hands ran without pressure over Tory’s thighs, desperately waiting. “Yeah…” he rasped. “Fuck, yes…”

Tory’s grin widened. He position himself and sat, inch by inch on Chris’ cock. In moments, he was buried completely. Chris moaned a curse, and Tory’s eyes gleamed in the light of the lamp, darkly dilated as he began to rock, slow, sensual, and deliberate. “Better?”

The word released the sorrow, the regret, and the utter happiness he felt, seeing the man he had come to love above him. He pulled himself up to capture Tory in a kiss with full commitment.


	31. Notes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A collection of notes/references for the curious. Let me know if I missed anything. XP

**Bocans.** (Also bauchan) Monsters in Scottish myth that could be both brutal or friendly, depending on the situation. The fact Chris never gets to see the bauchans themselves is a nod to the distinct lack of description in stories about them—nobody really knows what they were supposed to look like. ([uncoveringscotland.wordpress.com/bauchans](https://uncoveringscotland.wordpress.com/2011/08/01/bauchans/#more-112))

 **Sea Drake / Dragon.** pretty self-explanatory. Bit of fun: there are dozens of myths of monstrous sea snakes living in and around lakes, rivers, and coastlines of New England. ([cryptopia.us](http://www.cryptopia.us/site/2010/02/gloucester-sea-serpent-massachusetts-usa/), [native-languages.org](http://www.native-languages.org/horned-serpent.htm))

 **Fúath.** These were only mentioned, but also creatures from Gaelic myth. Said to inhabit streams and rivers, and drown the unwary. Similar stories were told of Water Babies in Native American lore on the Western coast. ([wikipedia.org/fuath](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Fuath))

 **Orontu’s Mound.** One of my favorite bits of trivia I stumbled across during this project—there are actually mysterious underground stone chambers built across parts of Vermont, and no one knows the origin of them. There’s speculation  the construction and markings could be early Native American, or indicative of an ancient Celtic settlement in the region. Wherever they came from, they're kind of awesome.  ([urbanpostmortem.wordpress.com](https://urbanpostmortem.wordpress.com/2013/11/06/vermonts-mysterious-stone-chambers/), [newenglandfolklore.blogspot.com](https://newenglandfolklore.blogspot.com/2012/10/a-visit-to-upton-chamber.html))

 **Puck-Woad.** The name is an anglicized variation of “pukwudgie” (which is what the Puck-Woad call themselves in their native language). :) In folklore, the pukwudgie inhabit the woods of New England, and are known to be both malicious and kind, depending on the circumstance. In the KoA 'verse, early interaction between Native Americans and the Puck-Woad Tinkers are intended as the origin of those myths. ([wikipedia.org/pukwudgie](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Pukwudgie) and  [www.native-languages.org/pukwudgie](http://www.native-languages.org/pukwudgie.htm))

 **Fomorians.** Enemies of the Tuatha Dé Danann in Irish mythology. Chris gives a fair amount of info about them in the story, but fun tidbit is (by some sources) the first king of Ireland was half-Fomorian. I also had fun slipping in references to other similar demons of old folklore across the world, like the rakshasas, the idea being Fomorians and are part of a larger people group not exclusive to just the British Isles. ([wikipedia.org/Fomorians](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Fomorians))

**Where they come from.** It’s not essential to understanding the story, but wanted to note there is a good reason why there are Norse, Roman, and Germanic fey in North America at the time of the story. More will come out in future stories (especially #4), but the gist is that many of the less powerful fey were driven out of Europe around 1000 CE in the face of great turmoil/war with the more powerful and primeval fey. Tory’s people, the Orulians, are a mix of Roman and Norse fey who settled around the Great Lakes region. Hector and Llewellyn’s people from Elram are Germanic fey who settled at the base of the Rocky Mountains and expanded outward, and the Greek fey settled on the Floridian peninsula, founding Atena (where Tory claimed they were sailing from when asked by the Puck-Woad). There are fey more native to North America (Aztec/Mayan in the south, a diverse but united kingdom in the Mississippi area, Iroquois in central Canada, and Inuit in northern Canada), we just haven’t met them yet.

 

 **[Rook Music Playlist](https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PLEd6-cT1tttv6gC21hnJOBbs8GOQh6ciK) ** via YouTube

 **[Wrong Side of Heaven](https://youtu.be/o_l4Ab5FRwM)** by Five Finger Death Punch. A powerful music video about the struggle of soldiers and veterans in the US, and one I think Tory would appreciate.


End file.
